


A Holmescest Anthology

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest Works [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Christmas, Fluff, Humor, M/M, One Shot Collection, Romance, Sibling Incest, Smut, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:21:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27817453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: Collection of one-shot stories featuring Sherlock and Mycroft (unless otherwise stated). They can be fluffy, angsty and smutty experiments with almost any sort of prompt you can imagine. Can be preslash, get-together or established relationship fics.-----3. Déjà BrewRated:EWhy is Sherlock working in a coffee shop? Why can’t Anthea make coffee to save her life? What does this all have to do with Mycroft? A take on the coffee shop trope with a Holmescest get-together twist.Tags:Meddling Anthea, Sherlock in disguise, It’s for a case!, Coffee Shop, Humour, Sherlock is a brat, Homophobia (just a little!), Fluff, Mycroft is out of his depth-----4.  The Light over the FrostRated:EPost-Sherrinford, Mycroft disappears only to make an appearance at Baker Street months later. Soulmate AU.Tags:Post-Sherrinford, Soulmate AU, Soulmarks, Fuck or Die, Angst, Hurt/Comfort-----5. An Alpha's ChoiceRated:MWhen Sherlock is about to leave for Pakistan to save Irene, he receives a call.Tags:Alpha/Omega/Beta dynamics, Alpha!Sherlock, Omega!Mycroft, dom/sub undertones, Angst
Relationships: Anthea & Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Holmescest Works [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745683
Comments: 84
Kudos: 120





	1. a bump in the night (Post Reichenbach Reunion; T)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



> My collection of Holmescest fics are growing unwieldly and its getting difficult to keep track of them, so I decided to put for the most part my one-shots going forward in here. Every fic (unless specified) will have its own universe, and will play with different tropes, ideas and even characterization. 
> 
> It's December, and I am in the holiday mood for once, so here's something fluffy to start :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns to London (and his brother) on Christmas Eve after ridding the world of Moriarty’s network.  
>  **Tags:** Fluff, Romance, Christmas, Letters, Hurt/Comfort, Smidge of Angst, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion  
>  **Words:** 5398

> Mycroft,
> 
> Brother,
> 
> I don’t know if you would ever find this, but I just wanted to write. To tell you, well, things that I could never say to you directly. You can laugh, mock me and call it misplaced sentiment, but something in me feels that it is imperative that I commit these words to paper. 
> 
> It’s my last day in London. Perhaps, that last day that I would ever be me. Don’t look at me like that, Mycroft. We both know the risks of this path that we’ve chosen to rid the world of Moriarty’s influence. 
> 
> I will say it. 
> 
> I might not come back. 
> 
> I am writing this letter in your study. 
> 
> You’ve stepped out to prepare dinner for the two of us instead of ordering takeaway as we usually do. 
> 
> There’s a picture of us framed on your desk from our youth. I was surprised when I first saw it months ago, considering the tattered state of our relationship. I wondered why you had it here at such a prominent location. There’s no other photos around. Nothing of Queen and Country. Nothing of our parents. Nothing of any potential paramours that you may have hidden over the years. 
> 
> Just you and I.
> 
> I always wondered who was important in your life. I might scratch a living off making deductions, but I could never read you. Perhaps it’s a good thing because I could feel your disappointment in me radiate off you like a crushing tsunami at times. Your disdain at the choices that I’ve made in my adult life. I didn’t need to know how much you truly hated me and how I am the stain of an otherwise perfect and spotless life. 
> 
> But, I was forced to reevaluate my position during the last few months. The jokes and barbs diminished as we worked. You always seemed pleased to see me, and happy to offer me shelter whenever John had a woman over for the weekends. I was even more startled to learn that I enjoyed your company. We talked about everything under the sun. It felt like the dark clouds that had gathered when we both made the transition to adulthood had dispersed and the sun’s rays had finally been allowed to shine down. 
> 
> I realized something. 
> 
> That I had missed you. 
> 
> That I had missed you, terribly. 
> 
> And perhaps some of the resentment that had lingered was because you had left me when I was young. You were my sun, Mycroft, when I had been a child. It was from you that I learned how to see the world. To organize it so that it wouldn’t be so daunting. So overwhelming. And when you left, my world was dark. No one understood me. 
> 
> It was hard to be alone. But yet – easy, for no one could ever hurt me again like that. I said to John before that ‘alone is what I have, alone protects me’. John had said in response ‘nope, friends protect people’ and I thought of you. 
> 
> Tonight is my last night in London. I will miss everything that I’ve known. My cases. My Strad. My flat. Mrs Hudson, John, even Gerry. The flow of traffic on Baker Street. This could be my final adventure, but I wish it wasn’t. I only wish that I had more time. More time to learn who my big brother has become throughout the ages we’d been estranged.
> 
> Long story short, I will miss you, Mycroft.
> 
> I will end it here. I just heard your incoming text, presumably to inform me that dinner is served. I will slide this letter somewhere in your bookshelf and leave it up to fate as to whether or not you find it. 
> 
> Till we meet again,
> 
> Your Sherlock 

After staring at the letter for a long time, Mycroft sighs. 

_ Where is little brother tonight? _ He hasn’t heard anything from or about Sherlock in weeks. Sherlock’s last known destination had been Johannesburg, dealing with a tiny cell who specialized in the wildlife trade. It had been a sidequest of sorts before Sherlock would take on the final cell in Eastern Europe.

Grabbing a tissue, he blows his congested nose. 

There have been anxious times like these before, but Sherlock had always popped up at the end. Battered and bloodied, but unbroken. Ready to commence the next part of his mission. His existence would be confirmed by a glimpse of him caught on CCTV by one of his trusted agents or communications from their mutual contacts. 

Mycroft would just have to keep the faith that Sherlock is out there. 

Somewhere. 

Spending his Christmas Eve alone. 

God. He should go to bed. Exhaustion has filled his marrow. But instead, his fingers curl around his tumbler and he drinks. An exquisite Brora, thirty years old. One of his favourite whiskies. With notes of chocolate, ice cream, hazelnut, fine leather and luxurious cigar smoke with just the faintest bit of peat. 

A vintage for a special day. 

Carefully, he folds the well-worn letter and slides it back in the plain envelope that Sherlock had found on his desk. He props his elbows against the desk, resting his forehead against his palms. His forehead is still warm. 

Fever? Or from the alcohol? 

Who knows. 

Christmas has always been Mycroft’s favourite holiday. He loved the decor, the treats and the memories of Sherlock and himself frolicking in the snow when they had still been close. 

But they had been close more recently, hadn’t they? Before Sherlock had made his fateful jump off Bart’s? They had overcome the heaps of resentment to establish a tentative working relationship which had then evolved into something that reminded Mycroft of the special bond that they had shared in their childhood. But considering how changeable Sherlock could be… would Sherlock want everything to go back to normal after his return? To go back to his life with Dr. John Watson? The fantastic duo of Baker Street? And to forget what they had forged? 

Well, that is if he returned. 

Mycroft sighs deeply again. He would prefer his brother alive. If Sherlock resumed his Baker Street life, Mycroft would understand. He would be heartbroken, but it is what it is.

He recorks the bottle of whiskey, before walking out of his study. 

Unlike the past years, his house is bereft of Christmas decor. He hadn’t set up the tree, put up the lights nor had he asked his housekeeper to cook him a feast. Or to bring her Christmas biscuits. It reflects how empty and dispirited he feels. God. How lonely! His appetite is minimal these days; instead he subsists on a diet of alcohol and worry. 

Finding that letter two years after Sherlock had left had been a punch in the gut. Sherlock had never been so sentimental in his adult life. Nor had he ever made allusions to his childhood, preferring to bury everything that had caused him pain. But what had hurt him the most was Sherlock’s wish. That they had more time together. To rekindle their relationship with each other. 

It’s all what Mycroft had ever wanted. 

And to know that Sherlock had thought that Mycroft had hated him! God. No. Never! Sure, little brother had vexed him, disappointed him and even angered him at times, but Mycroft had never felt… hate. Had he really been such a lousy older brother? 

All he could think of is their conversations together. Before they had planned for Moriarty’s downfall. Their witty banter. The diet jokes. The reprimands. Both of them are adequate conversationalists, but had they really failed to get their messages across over the years? That Mycroft loved his brother? That all Sherlock had wanted at the end was Mycroft’s respect? Or perhaps… something more? 

Shaking his head at his flight of fancy, he looks at his desolate living room. It’s a mess. Mycroft had been recovering from a nasty cold over the past week. He had worked from home and hadn’t cleaned a thing, having sent his housekeeper off for the holidays back to her family home in the countryside. The coffee table is littered with unwashed mugs, used tissues and dossiers. He had worked till he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. But when he dreamed, he had dreamt of Sherlock. 

The clock chimes for midnight. The cuckoo’s calls echo throughout his house, announcing the arrival of Christmas. It is clear out, and Mycroft can see the stars twinkling above in the heavens with the full moon in all its glory. 

_ Alright then. To bed. _ He guides his tired limbs to the staircase. He heads to his room, performs his bathroom routine, takes a hot shower and clambers into bed. 

He sleeps.

* * * * *

Creak. Creak. Creak.

At some point, Mycroft can hear the rhythmic sound of wood creaking. His house – inherited from Uncle Rudy – is old, but it seldoms makes that sort of noise. He thinks briefly of Ebenezer Scrooge and the three ghosts that had visited him. It could also be the fabled Saint Nick, bearing his bag of presents. He lets out a huff of laughter considering the ridiculousness of his thoughts, before realizing that the creak, creak,  _ creak _ is getting louder. It sounds oddly like…

Footsteps. 

Oh. He hadn’t even heard his security system go off. The only people who knew how to get in numbers only three. His housekeeper. Anthea. And Sherlock. The former two have departed the city, so that leads only… 

He shakes his head. Impossible. It must be a figment of his imagination. Or perhaps an intruder? But that is highly unlikely. Hardly anyone knows where he lives. Even in the governmental databases, he had listed an alternative address. The noises seem to die down, so he rolls over – curling himself in a more comfortable position before he attempts to sleep again. Maybe he is really sick. 

Hallucinations and fevers can go hand-in-hand. 

* * * * *

Oh lordy. Mycroft is surely seeing things now. 

The lamp is somehow switched on, and someone is standing in front of him. A thin and tall someone. With long curls. There’s a small tray in his hands, with two large mugs of… hot cocoa? Not just any cocoa, but the type that they had as children. With a blend of nutmeg, cinnamon and cayenne to give it the perfect kick. Best described as ‘sugar and spice and everything nice’. Both mugs are topped off with a generous amount of whipped cream, chocolate drizzle, green and red sprinkles and a candy cane. 

“Sherlock…?” He blinks in disbelief. “I thought you were…”

The apparition(?) smiles. “The rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I am done, Mycroft. Everything has been dismantled. The world is now free of one sort of pestilence.” 

God. How gaunt Sherlock looks. How tired! It looks like he had attempted to tame his long locks, find something decent to wear and had taken a shower and a shave in a very haphazard manner. No, he couldn’t be making this up in his head. There are new scars to his person, and the look in his eyes! The eyes of someone who had seen much death, cruelty and destruction. Not an uncommon look for the field agents of the MI6. 

“You didn’t go to Baker Street.”

“No. I wanted to see you.” 

“By scaring the bollocks out of me?” 

“I’ve never been a man of tact, Mycie. But I bring treats.” 

Sherlock finally sets the tray down on the table, and Mycroft could also see a tray of gingerbread men. Including two that are iced to look oddly like… them? One curly-haired one is wearing a Belstaff and a blue scarf. Another is wearing a suit and holds an umbrella with an arm. 

Mycroft weakly sits up. “No, you’ve never been. I am surprised, brother mine. But, nevertheless – touched that you’ve chosen me out of all of your old companions to spend Christmas with.”

His brother frowns. “And you like Christmas! Where’s your tree? Your lights? The angels? The feast? The ugly Christmas jumper? Oh, Mycroft – you’ve been sick!”

“Just the common cold.” Mycroft mumbles, and Sherlock promptly passes him a tissue to blow his nose. 

“I bet. You probably spent most of the time lying in bed for the last week. I saw that bowl downstairs in the kitchen. Chicken noodle soup! You only eat that when you are on your deathbed!”

“An exaggeration. And I didn’t feel up to celebrating Christmas, Sherlock. And… brother… why do you care? You used to make fun of all the decor I keep.” 

“Mycroft. I-I am sorry. I’ve been a fool for all of these years. You deserved better. I thought about it a lot you know, when I was away.” Sherlock looks visibly ashamed. “Maybe… I should go.” 

Just as Sherlock turns around, Mycroft says hoarsely, but with all the strength he could muster. “No. Lock. Don’t. Please. Stay.” 

Sherlock looks at him, his eyes unfathomable in the orangey-glow of the lamplight. He walks slowly over to the bed, and asks silently for permission to climb onto it. Mycroft nods, and he does, kicking off his shoes in the process. Little brother reaches for a mug and drinks it, getting whipped cream all over his top lip. Mycroft does the same. Typically he does not eat or drink in bed, but today he will make an exception to this rule. He lets the spices run down his slightly sore throat and it God – it’s as good as he had remembered.

“You only drink after I do.” Sherlock says rather sadly after licking the cream off his face. “Shows how much you trust me.”

“Well –”

“I know. I’ve been a terrible brother. Drugging your drinks. I am surprised that you even bother with me.”

“Contrary to what you believe, brother – I do not hate you. Might be annoyed and pissed off, yes – but never hate. I care for you very much, but it was so hard… learning how to draw boundaries when I had to.”

“Caring is a disadvantage.” Sherlock echoes words that Mycroft had said a long time ago.

“But I never said I didn’t, Sherlock.”

“No, you didn’t.” Sherlock glances at him again. “It was sad to see the lack of Christmas in your house, big brother. I break into your house every year when I was still here in London to see it.” 

“I know.”

“You always left me ginger nuts and whatever leftover dessert you had.”

“It is a Christmas tradition to leave food out for intruders.”

Sherlock grins slightly at that. 

But Mycroft does not like the melancholy that’s still on his countenance. God, yes – he remembers their little traditions. He would watch Sherlock enter into his house the week after Christmas from his office, and scrutinize whatever Christmas-y thing there was. 

He would change it every year for his little brother’s behalf. Adding little things here and there that Sherlock would appreciate. A pirate ship. A Sherlock bobble-head ornament that Anthea had found shortly after Sherlock’s first year of success with Dr. Watson. (Sherlock had hated it which made it all the more amusing.) A tree made out of a retort stand and flasks containing coloured chemicals. Santa figures that burst into an obnoxious Ho-ho-ho whenever someone walked by them. And etcetera. 

“You don’t need to air out all your misdeeds, little brother. I forgive you.”

Sherlock seems more forlorn at that. 

“I am just glad you are back.” Mycroft says even more quietly. “I… missed you.” 

There are tears glistening in Sherlock’s eyes. He looks away, wiping at them with his hand. And then Mycroft could see all the loneliness that Sherlock had endured. Three long years plus change. The pain he had witnessed. The indirect effects of his actions on the locals. There are always casualties in war. Civilian or ally. 

Things won’t be the same for Sherlock. Mycroft is certain. 

No matter how strong he is. 

Slowly, he reaches over and touches his brother after putting his half-finished mug back down. His hand reaches for Sherlock’s back, and his brother flinches just a little. But Sherlock turns closer toward him and lets Mycroft do what he had longed to do on the last night they had spent together. 

Mycroft encircles an arm around Sherlock and hugs him. Not tight, because he senses that there are injuries somewhere. Sherlock sighs at the contact and permits himself to relax. His sobs seem to grow a little louder, and Mycroft rocks him gently. Fondness perfuses Mycroft all over, and his heart aches for whatever it is that Sherlock is crying for. 

“Sh… little brother. It’s okay. Everything will be alright.” 

It all comes out in a rush. “Oh god. I was so lonely, Mycroft. I thought of you. I thought of Baker Street. John. Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. Even Molly. But, mostly you. How we would spend our evenings together, making fun of the world. Or playing board games like we did as children. You would be with me when I was conducting difficult parts of my mission. Or accompany me when I felt like I was on death’s doorstep. You know… I caught the bubonic plague when I was skulking about in Madagascar and had to be hospitalized.  _ Yersinia pestis _ is endemic there, did you know that?” Sherlock shudders. “I didn’t want to die out there. Alone and unknown. I didn’t want to leave you.”

“I know.”

“You found it then. The letter.”

“I did.”

Sherlock hides his face in Mycroft’s pyjama top. Mycroft senses embarrassment. He moves his hand up and gently combs through Sherlock’s messy locks in what he hoped was a soothing manner. 

“It’s okay to be sentimental.” Mycroft says after a minute. 

“I held back.” Sherlock whispers. “The first time when I thought I was going to die, I regretted my letter.”

“That you –”

“No, that I didn’t say everything that I wanted to say.”

“And what was that?”

Sherlock freezes, but Mycroft hums and continues what he is doing. Somehow, he knows what Sherlock wants to say. 

It will be horrible. 

Terrible in the eyes of the law. 

But oh, so beautiful. 

It makes sense though. Sherlock’s introspection of his past misdeeds. Why he had chosen to come to him, rather than his doctor. And of course… all those interactions between the two of them before Sherlock had left. The borderline flirtatious behaviour. The touching. And yes, even the letter. Mycroft had written it off as brotherly behaviour, considering the lack of boundaries between them when they had been so young… but clearly that’s not the case anymore. 

* * * * *

“You know then.” Sherlock remarks hoarsely, sensing Mycroft’s deduction from the way big brother’s body relaxes slightly. 

“I do know.” Mycroft says nonchalantly. “It’s… not an issue.”

Sherlock then probes cautiously. “Is it? It’s a defiance of the Law and Order you strive to keep in ole Blighty.”

“I think between us, little brother, laws are nothing.” Mycroft says with gravity. “But I wouldn’t recommend getting physically involved now.”

“Oh?” 

“I am sick, brother mine. This blasted cold refuses to leave me.”

“I don’t care.” Sherlock looks up – his face less tear-stained than before. “I’ve been breathing in your air…”

“Alas, Lock – I refuse to be the one playing nurse when you inevitably catch it.”

“Hmph.” Sherlock grumbles, but he rests his head on Mycroft’s shoulder all the same. 

“And you better be sure about this. Not because it is illegal, but because I don’t think either of us will recover from this if it goes south.” 

“I’ve had years to think about it.” Sherlock huffs. 

“Give it some time, Sherlock. You’ve barely been back for a day.”

“Fine.” Sherlock mumbles into Mycroft’s neck. “But I am staying with you.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way. There’s a guest room, you know – just down the hall. It has some of your things in it, should you wish to clean yourself up a bit more.” 

“M’not leaving you.”

“I will still be here, tomorrow.”

Sherlock makes a disgruntled noise, but he relents. Mycroft is fatigued, so Sherlock decides to obediently slide off the bed, leaving his cozy berth in Mycroft’s lap. He takes the two partially finished mugs with him, to deposit into the kitchen sink.

* * * * *

The next time Mycroft wakes up, he feels better. The aches and pains in his muscles, the itch in his throat and the weariness seem to have disappeared. 

What a dream he had! Of Sherlock’s return! 

That little brother had chosen to come to his humble abode rather than his famed address. That there had been more to Sherlock’s letter than just a fond wish to rekindle their fraternal relationship. He sits up and catches sight of the tray on the nightstand. 

By the Gods, he’s going mad!

The mugs of cocoa have disappeared, but the plate of untouched gingerbread men still remain. So… that had all been real. Sherlock is here. Picking up the Belstaff-wearing gingerbread, he smiles. It even has Sherlock’s nose and his crooked little grin. Where did Lock get these anyways? If Sherlock could bake, Mycroft would… well eat his brolly. Sherlock has a sweet tooth, and biscuits don’t usually last long around him. Especially those with any sort of ginger in them. 

This really must be sentiment then. 

There’s something else too that hadn’t been there earlier. A folded piece of paper of a luxurious shade of cream and texture. 

He unfolds it. 

It’s a letter. 

Unlike the haste of the first letter, Sherlock had found a fancy pen and had tried to spend some time to convert his usual chicken scratch into something more artistic and legible.

> Mycroft,
> 
> I couldn’t sleep so I spent the night doing things. What sorts of things, you ask? Well, you could always get out of bed and find out! 
> 
> Don’t worry! Nothing was set on fire. Well… not deliberately anyways. 
> 
> I figured I might as well write. 
> 
> It would keep me out of trouble. 
> 
> Ah, you roll your eyes, Mycroft – but trust me, I’ve done some reluctant growing up during my time away. It wasn’t my intention to sob all over your clothes yesterday, but I couldn’t help it. Looks like I don’t have as much control over my transport as I thought I did. 
> 
> But, God, I missed you. And you… clearly missed me. 
> 
> I think if there’s any lessons that I took away from the last few years, it is that life is short. There are no guarantees. I am not immortal. Nor as unfeeling as I had liked to be. That life should be lived! There is no time to second guess oneself when it comes to the pursuit of happiness. 
> 
> I came really, brother, to gauge how you felt about me. To see if you missed me. To see if you cared for me. To see if that you would take a chance on something that I felt was worth chasing.
> 
> And keeping. 
> 
> I know that the commercial and the religious aspects of Christmas are lost upon the both of us. I still remember the time you called me the ‘The Grinch’ for grousing over all the fuss you put into Christmas, but I can see now its appeal. Not for its superficial ornamentation, the spread of decadent food or the promise of presents from an imaginary physics-defying jolly fat man who really must rely on magic to squeeze through soot-filled chimneys. 
> 
> But rather for the dedicated time to love. 
> 
> I know we’ve always spent the holidays apart, unless being forcibly summoned by our overlord of a maternal unit to the ‘happy’ family home for a postcard perfect Christmas, but I want us to break tradition and spend it, for a lack of a better word, together. 
> 
> I can see your doubts, brother mine. 
> 
> I have them too. 
> 
> But they are not what you think they are. 
> 
> I’ve treated you badly for years. To be honest, I don’t even know why I say the things I do to you. Nor do I know why I was so cruel to you at times. Is it resentment? Distilled to the point where I no longer recall the nidus of its manifestation? I worry that I am not worthy of you. That you deserve so much better. That you would be bored with me. Or disappointed. 
> 
> Because, the truth is, I will inevitably fuck something up. I am far from perfect, as I am sure you know. 
> 
> I want to do better. 
> 
> I want to be better. 
> 
> I can’t promise that I will succeed. 
> 
> I can’t promise that we will always be happy. 
> 
> But I can sincerely promise that I will try.
> 
> It was last Christmas, perhaps – I took a moment to squat in someone’s house. The family was gone for a trip to their grandparents in Orlando, but the house was decorated with all the necessities. I think this was in Massachusetts. The outskirts of Boston. It was snowing extremely hard (a Nor’easter, the locals would say), but I made myself a fire. I was bored, so I found some books that belonged to the children.  _ The Chronicles of Narnia. _ You read those to me as a toddler. I would always squawk for more, like a hungry baby bird. Allegories for the central tenets of Christianity aside, it was a pleasant time to reminisce. To think over a mug of hot chocolate laced with liquor. 
> 
> And there was one sentence that I read that I still recall: 
> 
> _ Always winter, but never Christmas. _
> 
> I think that succinctly describes my adulthood, brother mine. But besides that, I also pondered what kind of lover you would be. Would you be aloof? Or would you cuddly? Would you want to experiment with our physicality? Or would your disdain for legwork extend to the bedroom? I have more questions, and conjured up things that we could do together, but the Englishman in me cringes at the thought of writing it all down. 
> 
> Not because that sex scares me, but because it's us. And I would like some things to remain sacred. 
> 
> (Pick your jaw up from the floor, Mycroft. It’s unbecoming.)
> 
> (But I adore you anyhow.)
> 
> I know by now that you are itching to write back to me, but for now put your literary ambitions aside and come join me in the living room. 
> 
> Most faithfully yours,
> 
> Sherlock 

Smiling, Mycroft stands the stiff piece of paper on his nightstand and prepares for his day. Whatever Sherlock is, he is unexpectedly… romantic. But then again, it would be so like baby brother to throw himself wholeheartedly into whatever endeavour he chooses.

* * * * *

There are tinsel and strings of lights draped everywhere. The Christmas Tree stands near (but far away) enough from the lit fireplace, festooned with a selection of complementary ornaments that Mycroft had collected throughout the years. His collection of Christmas-related figurines are arranged on the mantel, and candles have been lit in strategic positions. There are aluminum trays bearing what promises to be the missed Christmas meal on the coffee table. 

And of course, there is his now clean shaven brother sitting next to the Christmas Tree, wearing an ugly jumper with a three-dimensional Rudolph complete with a light for a nose. 

Mycroft doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more glorious sight. He walks over to his brother in one of his finest suits and Sherlock says.

“I tried to cook for you, but burnt it. So I looked everywhere for a caterer who could provide at the last minute.” 

“Sherlock, you didn’t have to.”

“Oh, I had to. It’s not just for you. It’s for me as well. There’s enough food to last us a long while.” Sherlock says quietly. 

There is a hypnotizing quality to the way the lights (mainly from the fireplace) flicker across Sherlock’s face. Despite the eagerness, Mycroft can see the weariness in those blue-green-brown orbs. He would ask Sherlock to go to bed, but he has a feeling that his brother is avoiding sleep. Nightmares? Never has Mycroft seen his brother look so human. And so vulnerable. He looks so much older, with his long locks curling over his shoulders. It’s endearing, and Mycroft instantly reaches out for him for a soul-warming hug. 

Sherlock melts into him, sighing with some sort of relief. 

Mycroft leans over to gently kiss his forehead. 

God. This is easily the best Christmas he’s ever had. Having his Lock back in London. Here with him on one of his favourite days of the year. Safe and sound.

“Are you planning to go back to Baker Street?” Mycroft asks after a long while. 

“Maybe after New Years? I want to bring some of my things back to yours. I know John is no longer living there. I will still keep the flat for now, for my job.” There’s a bit of sadness tinged in his voice. “I know people have moved on, and I was afraid that you would have too.”

“No, Lock.” Mycroft presses his lips against Sherlock’s cheek while Sherlock’s fingers idly play with his silk tie. “I thought of you whenever I had a free moment. And sometimes even when I didn’t. I wondered where you were. What you were doing. Whether you still wanted to see me after your return. I worried, little brother. Sometimes I feared for the worst. It was… excruciating at times, not knowing.”

“And you – of course – have to know.” Sherlock lets one of his hands run up Mycroft’s suit jacket, and his fingers lightly touch his brother’s thinning but soft hair. “But I am here to stay –” 

Little brother attempts to contain a yawn. 

It is unsuccessful. 

“When was the last time you slept, Lock?”

“I don’t know anymore. I just wanted to go… home. And Mycroft, I think I might have a bit of…” Sherlock looks away. “Acute Stress Disorder. I see things in my dreams that I don’t want to see. And I don’t want to see any shrinks.” 

“It’s alright Lock, we will deal with it, alright?” 

Sherlock nods, accepting another kiss from Mycroft. This time the top of his curls. 

Before Sherlock could reply, they could hear from somewhere:

> _ Take me to the river, drop me in the water… _

“Good Lord, did you put batteries back in that damnable fish?” Mycroft groans. “Its bloody motion sensor is broken so it plays whenever it wants to.”

“Mycroft, are you telling me that you didn’t like your Christmas present that I left behind years ago?” Sherlock gives him a wide-eyed look of hurt.

“If you didn’t like that bobblehead of you, you could have told me and I would have gotten rid of it. No need for retaliation.” Mycroft grumbles, not buying what Sherlock is selling. 

His brother had brought that singing bass during one of his Christmas break-ins, and it had scared Mycroft silly when he had walked by it the first time.

Sherlock’s eyes light up with some mischief, but Mycroft quashes it quickly. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Never.” Sherlock quickly assures him, keeping his face as serious as he could.

Mycroft is sure Sherlock is conjuring up ways to get some custom-made scandalous Mycroftian memorabilia to give to him next year. 

Ah, the joys of being with little brother.

“Let’s take a nap at least then.”

“Together?” Sherlock asks dubiously.

Mycroft nods, knowing that it is the only way to get Sherlock to sleep. Hang the fact that he had just gotten dressed in a suit for the day. There would be plenty of time to figure things out later. “We can feast, and maybe go for a walk? You’ve always liked to stroll the streets of London.”

“You will chase away all the nightmares? Like the old days? God. All those faces…” Sherlock shudders. 

“I will try my best, Lock. Come on. Let’s go then.”

And after Mycroft blows out all the candles, they head back to bed. 

Sherlock curls up naturally against his person – having always been a cuddler. It’s amazing how well they fit, like puzzle pieces meant to click together. 

Mycroft watches little brother until he falls asleep before following suit, filled with a warmth and hope that he hadn’t felt in so long.

If ever. 


	2. A Study in Mistletoe (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock + Mycroft + mistletoe at the annual Baker Street Christmas Party.  
>  **Tags:** Mistletoe, Post-Sherrinford, John is very smart, Humour  
>  **Words:** 1492

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short humorous piece from mostly John's POV.

“Well, what are you two waiting for? Kiss. Kiss!” Greg exclaims to the latest unfortunate pairing to be caught under the parasitic plant clipping. 

“But if they don’t want to, they shouldn’t have to.” Molly says, primly – obviously jealous that it isn’t her under the mistletoe. 

“Oi! Come on! It’s  _ tradition!” _ Anderson is already one too many pints in. He hollers, rather like a trollied fan in the stands of a footy match. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss already! For the love of all that’s holy!” 

John watches the two brothers standing under the mistletoe in the kitchen of their Baker Street flat, both clearly wishing that they were anywhere but here. Sherlock had done an admirable job of avoiding the two strategically placed plant clippings in the flat, only to fall into a trap set by Molly. She had subtly rearranged the desserts, placing the tray of Mrs Hudson’s ginger nuts in a spot where Sherlock would have to stand under the mistletoe to get them. 

But of course, it’s a matter of wrong place and wrong time. Even the British Government cannot avoid the trappings of tradition. 

He had just been saying to Sherlock the other day to give Molly a chance. After the mess that had been Sherrinford, John feels that Sherlock had grown enough emotionally to seek a romantic connection with someone. Especially when Sherlock had seemed despondent the weeks after his deranged sister had put them through the ringer with her nasty games. He had thought perhaps that it was guilt? Towards how Sherlock had treated her over the years.

And why not Molly? She’s smart. Loves animals. Could provide Sherlock with a host of body parts and could converse intelligently about such experiments without passing out. She’s seen him at his worst, and still wants him. Most importantly, she loves Rosie (who is currently being babysat by his Mum). But Sherlock had shook his head at that idea to complete their Baker Street family with exasperation and had gone straight to his room, slamming the door behind him. 

“Oh, just kiss already so we can move on!” John finally chimes in. “It’s  _ just  _ a kiss!”

Sherlock seems to snap out of whatever funk he had been caught in, and he looks again at the mistletoe. He then glances at his brother. “As much as I hate to say it, brother – he’s right. It is after all just a kiss.”

Mycroft is still rooted to the spot. 

“Come on, Mycie – pucker up! Or am I just  _ too  _ hideous to kiss?” Sherlock goads in that sarcastically cutting tone that he reserves for bitter arguments with his brother. 

It also is coincidentally the sort of tone that gives John a migraine and makes him want to go seek for cover for the ensuing Holmesian kerfuffle. 

An expression of what looks like pain flashes across Mycroft’s face. John suddenly wishes that everyone had followed Molly’s lead and had given the brothers a pass to this silly tradition. God. This is the last thing their relationship needed. One would have thought that the life and death situation of Sherrinford would have smoothed things over a tad, rather than make their relationship worse. 

Just before he could say anything though, Mycroft grabs Sherlock roughly by the collar and reels him in, before kissing him soundly. 

John is sure that his jaw has dropped because Sherlock goes pliant. It is a heartstopping kiss, the type given between two people who are very much enjoying what they are doing rather than being forced to do so. It is nothing like those uninspired pecks that Sherlock had given Janine, and it makes John wonder how Sherlock could be with someone he actually cared for. Sherlock is capable of love. Of that John is certain. 

But… hm… 

Hang on a tick!

At this point, Mycroft had let Sherlock go, and the younger Holmes is dazed as he walks away from the table without taking his ginger nuts. 

Meanwhile, there is applause and loud cheers from the rest of the peanut gallery after a moment of gobsmacked silence. Including a ‘Jolly good show!’ from a thrilled Anderson.

* * * * * 

“What was that?” John asks Sherlock minutes later when he could catch him at a discreet corner. 

“What was what?”

“Under that mistletoe! That…”

“Well, John – tradition dictates that whomever is under that tree-sucking parasite must kiss. And kiss… we did.” Sherlock explains patiently, as if informing one of his dim-witted clients.

“But… you… you looked like you enjoyed it!”

“Well, considering how lacking my kissing technique was when I was fake-dating Janine, I decided to ask for a lesson or two from someone with more experience just in case I would have to fake-date someone for a case, again.”

“You… you… asked your brother?” John is absolutely flabbergasted. But it made a strange sort of sense, considering that it looked like they’ve kissed before. “And… he said yes?”

Sherlock shrugs. “It is an important life skill after all.” 

Before John could question him further, the consulting detective had reached over for his Strad and had walked over to his favourite window – signalling the end of his social duties for the evening. 

* * * * *

“So, let me get this straight – he took kissing lessons from Mycroft.” Greg tries, while struggling to overcome the effects of Mrs Hudson’s incredible (but highly alcoholic) Christmas fruit punch. “For the sake of his future cases.”

John nods. “Yeah.”

After a long while, Greg finally concludes. “Well, blimey mate, that makes an odd sort of sense.” 

“Well, he could have asked anyone else! Molly! Or even… me!” 

“Really, John? Think about it. Who else would have he logically asked? Molly who has been in love with him for well… forever? You – Mr ‘I-am-not-gay’ John Watson? Mrs Hudson? Me – who is trying to avoid a second divorce?”

“You got a point there, Greg.” John concedes, finding no glaringly obvious hole in his friend’s logic.

“Aye.” Greg grins, apparently happy to solve such a complicated problem tipsy. “Case closed?”

“Yeah. Bloody hell. Holmeses!” John tuts, shaking his head. He then makes another deduction. “Wait… you are bi, Greg?”

“A gentleman does not kiss and tell.” Greg winks. He then changes the topic. “You down for the pub tomorrow?”

“Oh god, yes. The North London derby! Wouldn’t miss it for the world! Mum has Rosie for the next few days –”

“Yeah then, I will see you then mate for a cheeky pint or two.”

“You sure you can make it home safely?”

“I already called a cab. Cheers for the do! And Merry Christmas!” 

John walks back into the now-empty flat after having seen Gregory off in his cab. Sherlock had disappeared, having said that he had a sensitive experiment running in his old friend Mike’s laboratory, so he had dipped sometime before midnight to Bart’s after most of their guests had left. 

Did he actually think that? That Sherlock and Mycroft could possibly have a real relationship? God! He’s had too much punch and beer tonight. The ole liver isn’t what it used to be, that’s for certain. Besides, Sherlock is a man very much dedicated to his craft. He would make great sacrifices to obtain skills required for his disguises.

He then shudders. 

_ Did Sherlock take other lessons that went beyond kissing?  _

John resolves to finish the rest of the punch in order to scrub his mind clean. 

Besides, there are many people around the globe who are happy with only kissing in their relationships.

It’s all fine.

* * * * *

* * * * *

“Hullo, lover mine.” Mycroft smiles when a freshly scrubbed and delightfully naked Sherlock finally slips into his (well their) bed.

“Mycie!” Sherlock immediately slots his body next to his. He then sighs. “These parties grow more and more tedious with every year that passes.”

“A consequence of keeping goldfish, my darling.” Mycroft turns to peck him on the cheek. “You should have gotten a dog instead. Much easier.”

“Perhaps.” Sherlock murmurs noncommittally, letting his fingers run through Mycroft’s abundant chest fur. “John did corner me earlier and asked me why I had the audacity to enjoy our kiss.”

“Oh?” Mycroft quirks an expressive eyebrow.

“I told him the truth.”

The eyebrow goes even higher.

Sherlock continues after a moment. “Well, at least partially. Told him I needed lessons. From you.”

“Do I even want to know what sort of lessons you required, little brother?”

“Just kissing, Mycroft. I am sure he would drink himself into hepatic encephalopathy if I told him how thorough Professor Holmes’ practical course on human intimacy actually is. He bought it.”

“Professor Holmes…” Mycroft smiles fondly at his brother. “I rather like the sound of that.”

“Oh? Well, then – Professor – I am afraid that I’ve been a rather bad boy this semester. I think I might be in need of some remediation.” 

“Is that so?”

They both thoroughly enjoy a repeat demonstration of one of Sherlock’s favourite lessons.


	3. Déjà Brew (Sherlock in Disguise; E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why is Sherlock working in a coffee shop? Why can’t Anthea make coffee to save her life? What does this all have to do with Mycroft? A take on the coffee shop trope with a Holmescest get-together twist.  
>  **Tags:** Meddling Anthea, Sherlock in disguise, It’s for a case!, Coffee Shop, Humour, Sherlock is a brat, Homophobia (just a little!), Fluff, Mycroft is out of his depth, Caring Sherlock  
>  **Words:** 6450

* * *

**Day 1:**

“What has you in a state of – for a lack of a better word – giggles so early in the morning?” Mycroft gives his usually serious and efficient personal assistant a raised brow as he inquires. 

Anthea’s fingers tap across her phone screen with a virtuosic dexterity. She looks up after having sent her latest text. “I am sorry, Sir. But, my partner and I found this cute coffee shop recently, and there is something oddly familiar about one of its flirtatious baristas.”

“Oh?” Mycroft offers encouragingly. “That doesn’t seem out of the realm of normality.”

“After seeing him again today, Sir, I am quite sure that…” Anthea starts to laugh again and has trouble finishing her sentence. “That it is your brother. Meanwhile, Ariadne – my partner – is quite enamoured with him. She rather insists we go there before work everyday for a cuppa.” She then shrugs and says reluctantly. “He does make a good drink.” 

_Really?_ Mycroft resists the urge to shoot both of his eyebrows off his face. Are they talking about the same person? Or does Anthea know of an estranged Holmesian sibling that he has no knowledge of? He wouldn’t put it past his cunning ex-field agent of a PA. 

He knows the sort of indulgent drinks that Anthea and her partner prefers. 

Good God. Sherlock pouring out lattes with fancy designs? Little brother at the British public’s beck and call? 

Sherlock, flirtatious? 

It’s…too much! 

Anthea suavely slides a business card across her desk to a nearby address.

“Just in case you want to see for yourself, SIr.”

After a moment of deliberation, Mycroft takes it – intending not to go. 

* * * * * 

Exactly an hour later, Mycroft finds himself waiting outside a tiny coffee shop after having taken a stroll on the busy (but sunny) street and through Trafalgar Square. His 10 o’clock had been canceled at the last minute, leaving him with nothing he wanted to do. 

It takes five minutes for the line to shrink enough so that Mycroft could finally enter the cozy space. The smell of brewed coffee and baked goods assail his senses; rich, nutty, sweet and comforting all at once. It has been a long time since Mycroft had personally stepped into such a place. Usually he is at the mercy of whatever Anthea deigns to bring to him in the morning which depending on her mood can be anywhere from adequate to downright unpalatable. But to keep the peace, Mycroft would drink it while fearing that he might develop a third limb or eye. 

There are two baristas manning the counter. Two men. One dirty blond, one dark. Both tanned despite it being December. The product of a can? Or a tanning bed? Likely the former for the blond and the latter for the dark-haired barista. They both wear matching black aprons with the logo embroidered at one corner. 

It’s not obvious at first glance as to which one is his brother. 

But then, Mycroft catches sight of the blond’s handwritten name tag. 

> Gaynor Twocock

Surely… that must be fake. The other short-haired barista bears a tag with the more sensible name of Brandon and had omitted his last name. A former history major with sights on attending law school, but is using this job to get by in the meanwhile. And the other… God… this must be Sherlock. His hair is long and curly and kept in a hairnet. And… is that a dangling fang earring in his right ear? 

Good Lord. 

While Mycroft ponders this, Gaynor deals with the customers with efficiency. Explaining the menu with his vowels plummier than Sherlock would normally speak them. Winking and even laughing casually as he works at a customer’s stupid joke. 

And then before he knows it, he’s next.

“Welcome to Déjà Brew. What can I get started for you?” 

“Um…” Mycroft had spent too much time deducing the baristas and hadn’t looked at the menu at all. Feeling awkward, he glances up at the menu and draws a blank. 

Gaynor sighs theatrically, but gives no indication that he recognizes Mycroft in any way. 

No this must be Sherlock. Those cheekbones! 

They are unmistakable!

 _Mycroft. Focus on the menu._ He reprimands himself internally. 

“First time?” 

“Uh… yeah.” God. When was the last time he’s sounded like such a stammering fool? 

“I am pretty good at _guessing_ what people like. Any preferences?”

 _Guessing?_ The real Sherlock would have scorned someone who had the gall to call his art mere guessing! 

“Something with minimal calories.” Mycroft says reflexively before wincing. 

Good Lord, he’s given Sherlock ammunition for days, if not years! 

“A diet, hm?” The lack of judgement in Gaynor’s tone is refreshing. 

“Um. Yes.” 

“Name?” 

The poker face on Gaynor’s face is a wonder to behold. This is certainly the first time Mycroft has been face-to-face with one of Sherlock’s disguises. Surely he isn’t working here because he couldn’t pay the rent, right? Not when he could swipe Mycroft’s credit card at any time…

“Mycroft.” 

Damn. Why did he even give his real name? Usually for orders, he would just say Mike or something else that is easy for the goldfish. It certainly leads to less inane questions and remarks about the ‘uniqueness’ of the name that Mummy had decided to afflict him with all those decades ago. 

Mercifully Gaynor doesn’t say a thing in response, simply writing something down on a red cup. He rings Mycroft up, and Mycroft can’t help but to have his eyes gravitate toward the man’s bum clad in tightly tailored trousers as he makes Mycroft’s drink. 

Is this really Sherlock? He doesn’t remember his brother’s arse being quite like this! 

He stops thinking about the arse when Gaynor deposits the drink at the collection station, and when he picks the hot beverage up, his name is spelled.

> Myggot

Wonderful. He glares at the barista who gives him a little wink. 

_Problem?_ Gaynor seems to be conveying in a rather Sherlockian fashion.

Mycroft walks out, dissatisfied. 

Or rather, almost fuming. 

* * * * *

When Mycroft takes a sip, he knows immediately that this isn’t the low calorie drink he had requested. Oh no. It is a luxuriant beverage with the perfect proportions of espresso, whipped cream, chocolate sauce and fat-laden steamed milk. 

He ought to toss it, but it tastes… amazing. 

Decadent. 

He’s never had this before. 

Damn it all. 

* * * * *

“Sir, he’s only giving you _the_ experience.” Anthea tries to hide her laughter when Mycroft shows her his misspelled name on the red cup. “It’s a thing, you know – to have your name abused by the baristas.”

“How did he spell your name the first time you went?”

“A-N-T-H-E-A.” 

Mycroft could feel his blood pressure rise as he tries to walk calmly back to his office. 

* * * * *

Later before he could bin the remnants of his beverage, he has the unexpected urge to remove the cardboard sleeve from the cup. He finds a message written hastily in the same Sharpie that had been used to mark the cup.

> Hey there ~~~
> 
> I know you requested a low-calorie drink, but really you are one of the few customers that I’ve got who really do not require such stringent caloric restriction. I think you are a victim of substandard caffeinated drinks and seldom frequent such establishments such as ours. Please forgive me for giving you a treat. You seem like a man who enjoys the finer things in life but seldom let yourself go.
> 
> Gay

Mycroft could feel all his indignation leave him as he sinks down into his chair. 

He keeps the cardboard, but tosses the cup.

* * *

**Day 2:**

_Revolting._

Mycroft takes a sip and promptly gags. This is surely one of Anthea’s worst attempts ever at making coffee yet. That is if this deplorable excuse for a drink could even be classified as such.

Impulsively, he grabs the cup, shakes his head at the stack of documents that required his scrutiny before his meeting at noon with Sir Edwin and marches out of his office. 

Even _he_ has limits!

Anthea is busy writing emails at her own desk. She doesn’t even acknowledge it when Mycroft strides past her desk to the kitchenette to dump the rest of the fluid down the sink and walks back to grab his greatcoat before going out to search for something more drinkable. 

* * * * *

There are less customers today, with London having ground to a halt with a few centimetres of snow on the ground. The bell chimes when Mycroft enters. He carefully scrapes the snow off the soles of his shoes onto the welcome mat before standing in line. 

The same baristas are working today. 

Today Gay has his sleeves rolled up, revealing a detailed Jolly Roger next to the crook on his left forearm with a flower clenched between its teeth. A tattoo? Mycroft could barely make out the faint track marks that Sherlock has from where he stands. It’s always a relief to see that there are no new ones present. He knows little brother rarely wears short sleeved shirts regardless of the weather, preferring to hide his old deeds. 

But Gay seems to have no such inclination. 

“Lo, My –”

“Just call me Mike.” Mycroft interjects, not wanting his name to be bastardized again. 

Gay suppresses an eyeroll, but Mycroft catches it. 

_Yes. Finally. He’s caught a flaw in the disguise!_

But the barista goes back on script, giving him no time to mentally dance in celebration. 

“Welcome back to Déjà Brew – what is your favourite colour?”

 _What? Did he hear that right?_ _Is Gay trying to flirt with him?_

“I’d like a coffee. Large.” He says simply without glancing at the menu.

Gay looks amused, but doesn’t say anything in response. He quotes a price, Mycroft pays it with a twenty pound note and Gay grabs another red cup to scribble on before making the beverage. 

As Mycroft waits by the counter, Gay brings up the cup and something wrapped in parchment paper. A sandwich. His stomach rumbles at the food, as he usually never has time for breakfast. 

“I didn’t order a sandwich.” He protests.

“On the house.” Gay winks at him. “It goes excellently with coffee.”

“Er… thanks.” _Definitely flirting._ He then stammers. “My favourite colour is blue.” _Like the ever changing shades of Sherlock’s eyes…_

_Fuck!_

Gay only gives him a small smile before departing to help the next customer.

When Mycroft picks up the cup to see his name, it bears:

> Mickey

_Why does he even bother?!_

_Mickey?! &?! _

_Really?_

Grabbing his sandwich, he huffily walks out into the flurries. 

* * * * *

“Oh, come on – Sir. Let me see what he wrote!” Anthea cajoles, reminding Mycroft of schoolchildren out on break in the yard. “It can’t possibly be _that_ bad. And… he gave you a sandwich too?”

“How did you even know I went there?” Mycroft forestalls the onslaught temporarily with a flimsy question.

Anthea only grins, reminding him of another bratty personage with annoying deductive skills. Her body language communicates: _Where else could you have gone in such a short span of time?_

“I think you brewed nuclear waste for coffee on purpose.” 

Mycroft finally dares to bring up the matter that has been bothering him for the past hour. Coincidentally, his calendar had been subtly rearranged so that he would have time to make the brief walk. 

“I have no idea what you are talking about, Sir.” Anthea is the very picture of innocence. “Besides, I thought you wanted the opportunity to spend more time with your brother.” 

_But not like this!_ _Playing this farce where they pretended they’ve only met just yesterday!_

“In a neutral setting…” Anthea finishes her sentence, just as Mycroft opts to return to his office, having nothing left to say to her. 

* * * * *

Mycroft sits back down in his chair while conceding that Anthea does have a point. There might be some merit to it, meeting Sherlock like this. Not as the brothers with a sour relationship, but as strangers. Well, they kind of know each other at this instant in time. 

Blond does _not_ suit Sherlock. Mycroft reflects while finally taking a draught of his now-lukewarm coffee. Somehow, Sherlock had added the right amount of cream that Mycroft liked while avoiding the sugar. He unwraps the sandwich, finding grilled cheese, avocado, bacon and egg. He pictures the barista again, clad today in a grey shirt, tight dark jeans, the same earring and his hair styled in the same manner. Why had he said blue at the end? It’s inane! 

A colour is a colour! 

But then he sees again Sherlock’s eyes. Not the ones obscured by dark contacts, but Sherlock’s actual ones. Blue-green-grey – ever-changing in the light. Mirthful ones, like they had been during childhood. Tempestuous ones, as they had often been during his troubled adulthood. 

Good God. He is sure that Anthea had been well-intentioned and had created the opportunity for Mycroft to spend some brotherly time with his brother, not daydream about him like some loon!

He slides the cardboard sleeve off once again, and is greeted with a sentence. 

> My favourite colour is blue.

* * * * *

“What brings you here to Baker Street, Mycroft?” Dr. Watson inquires in surprise after he opens the door.

“Is my brother in?” 

The doctor shakes his head. “No, Sherlock left for a case out in the countryside. Didn’t give me a return date, I’m afraid.”

“When did he go?” 

His brother’s flatmate looks incredulously at him. “You mean you don’t know?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I am afraid not. Contrary to your beliefs, I do not watch my brother’s every move.”

“He left over a week ago. Hasn’t messaged me since. I suspect he went undercover –”

There are feet in high heels clicking up the stairs, and Mycroft could see a young female veterinarian with platinum blonde hair and a dress that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Her makeup is quite heavy, but her chest is rather bountiful.

“Oh, John! It’s good to see you, darling!” She walks straight up to Dr. Watson and gives him a wet one on the cheek while ignoring Mycroft. “Did you miss me?”

“Uh, I will leave you to it then. Good day.” 

Mycroft hastily beats a retreat before the hanky-panky could commence further.

* * *

**Day 3:**

Today Mycroft has his driver bring him straight to the coffee shop instead of Whitehall, as he has a feeling that Anthea will somehow manipulate him into coming here anyways. Best get it over with then. The snow from the day before had all melted, and there’s a wee bit of drizzle coming down from the grey skies. 

Gay is still there, making a drink for his customer. 

There is another barista working today, another young man with dark curly locks who goes by the name of Rick. Has asthma, a hypoallergenic kitten, worked as a lifeguard in the past and is in university studying sociology or something related to it. 

“Ugh.” The customer says as she takes the plain cup from Gay. “Where’s the Christmas decor? Santa? Trees? Snowflakes? Why do you lot hate Christmas! Why do you hate your saviour when he has brought you so many blessings! Matthew 10:33 speaks of your –”

“Ma’am, we do not control the designs of our cups! We are not Starbucks. We never had Christmas-themed cups!” Rick comes over before Gay could say a thing. The barista puts a protective arm around Gay’s waist and continues while a flare of jealousy erupts within Mycroft. “Take it up with corporate!” 

“I sure will!” She then eyes the closeness of the two baristas. “And you two heathens! How dare you defy God! Thou shalt not lie with a man –”

As Mycroft is the only other customer in the shop, he steps in and interjects firmly. “Ma’am, I do wonder what the Holy Book says about adultery.” 

Suddenly her face turns a disgusting shade of puce, and she glares at Mycroft before marching out in a huff, leaving the rest of her order behind. Rick is vibrating with rage while Gay releases his lip (as he had bit it to hold his scathing words) and turns his attention to Mycroft and says simply. 

“Thanks, Mycroft. I will make you something. On the house.” 

“Oh no, I must insist –”

“No.” Gay says forcefully and Mycroft almost gasps when Gay’s hand rests lightly against the dorsum of his own. The contact sends frissons up his arm and through his spine. 

God. He’s never felt this way with any of his previous sexual pursuits. 

“It’s on me.” Gay then adds, leaving Mycroft frozen to the spot as he goes to work his magic after grabbing a red cup.

Oh dear. This is wrong. He should not be having these sorts of feelings for his brother. God fucking damn it. Even if Sherlock is acting, there’s a part of ‘Gay’ that is still authentically him. 

“Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft!” 

Oh. Mycroft stumbles over to get his drink. 

Gay gestures to the left behind chocolate and carrot cake muffins and a sandwich. He bags everything for him. “The spoils of war.” 

“Uh, thanks.” He can’t even remember when was the last time Sherlock had been so nice and grateful to him. And then he says impulsively. “Your name…”

“My name?” Gay looks down at his name tag. “What about it?”

“Is it a preference?” At the confusion in Gay’s face, Mycroft clarifies. “Sexually?”

Good Lord. What kind of a question is that? 

“It is _my_ name.” Gay crosses his arms and huffs defensively. 

_No it’s not._ Mycroft scrutinizes him, while a suspicious Rick has turned part of his attention to them while helping out a customer that had just come in. 

Oh for the love of God. Did he just offend his barista? Now he will have putrid coffee from both ends! What if this man _isn’t_ Sherlock? Maybe he ought to apologize. 

Who knows when was the last time he had legitimately _flirted_ with someone.

“Are you asking me out?” Gay asks after he had allowed Mycroft to stew for a minute or so.

 _What?_ If this is Sherlock, why is he encouraging this madness? Or is he doing this so he could have a lifetime’s worth of ammunition against him? Blackmail? 

“Then yes, it’s absolutely a preference. It’s more fun with two.” Gay winks at him salaciously. “I work till closing tomorrow.” 

With that, Mycroft takes his goods and walks out.

He almost passes out when he sees his name on the cup. 

> Mycock

Oh dear, Anthea should never ever see this.

* * * * *

Unfortunately, Anthea is prepared for him when he strides into their office space intent on going straight to his office to drop off his things. 

“Good morning, Sir. Would you please sign these documents?” 

“Anthea, can I please go to my office first?” Mycroft looks at his laden hands. Coffee cup in one, the bag of treats and his briefcase in the other and his brolly is tucked under his axilla.

“It would only take a second, Sir. You know how pissy the Prime Minister’s secretary gets when things don’t get turned onto her desk first thing in the morning.” 

_And it would only take a second for him to go to his office and run back out._ But an annoyed Anthea is not what he wanted to start the day with. Sighing, he puts the briefcase and the food down and picks up the pen to sign the two papers that Anthea had laid out for him. He makes sure that ‘Mycock’ is covered by his palm. 

“Oh, and Sir?” 

“Yes, Anthea?” 

“Would you please go grab the platter that Her Majesty gifted you last year from the kitchenette? I promised Lady Ainsworth that she may borrow the heirloom for her luncheon with the Danish contingent tomorrow. You know that I am too vertically challenged to reach it. She will be here before ten to pick it up.” 

_Argh!_ Mycroft meekly goes to the kitchenette to do her bidding. There are such things as step stools! The British Government indeed! If little brother could see him now! 

It is only when he walks to the cupboard in question that he realizes Anthea had followed him in. He should have used the pen and crossed out the misspelling of his name a few moments ago. But then again, the black Sharpie would probably just show through. Realizing defeat, he leaves the cup on the counter with Gay’s writing facing the wall before retrieving the damnable platter with both hands.

Anthea, of course, takes advantage of the moment to have a look. By the time Mycroft hands the antique porcelain over to her, she has a wide grin on her face. 

“He sure doesn’t lack creativity, Sir.” 

“Hmph.” Mycroft takes his coffee and walks out before the teasing could begin. 

* * * * *

The muffins are divine. The sandwich is one that is full of hearty breakfast fare, including an egg, a sausage patty, strips of bacon and cheese. The drink itself is creamy, milky and reminds Mycroft of a hot beverage that he had enjoyed while on a work trip to Madrid. 

It’s an indulgent morning.

Did Sherlock invite himself on a date? With him? Not of the brotherly variety, but the one which is ‘better with two’? Two what? Cocks? Good God. Should he even take him up on it? It seems so wrong…

He googles the working hours of the shop. Sherlock would be off at five.

This is madness. This is crazy! 

Insanity! 

Lunacy!

But it’s been so long since he’s had any physical interactions with anyone. Sure, he admits that he finds his brother sexually attractive, but is that… enough? Would it ruin their relationship further? 

But then again, there’s not many ways that it could be worse. 

Finally, he slides the sleeve off the coffee cup, hoping for a bit more information. 

> Hi,
> 
> I can see that you are out of your depth, Myc – but I am writing to reassure you that I have no nefarious intentions toward you. It’s clear that you are rusty in the ways that two people can be intimate with each other. Come if you can. Or want. I won’t be offended if you don’t. If this is one off, I don’t mind that either. The rambling short, there are no strings attached.
> 
> ~Gay

Mind made, Mycroft finishes the food and quickly tackles his work so that he could head back to the shop before closing. 

* * *

**Day 3.5:**

Mycroft decides to sit at the back of the shop at its only table which is a tree trunk sliced lengthwise with the grain of the wood beautifully stained. The interior of the shop is minimalistic in nature, with a few pictures painted by local artists and wooden paneling. His fingers type away at the keyboard of his laptop, but his eyes are drawn counter-wards frequently. Gay is the only person manning the counter now, handling customers and their orders with speed and a surprising amount of restraint. It’s an impressive sight to see, knowing that Sherlock could be like this. Mature and tactful while suffering the assortment of goldfish that the world had to offer at this point in time with nary a complaint. 

Not for the first time he wonders why Sherlock is here, posed as Gay. 

“Hm. Now I understand why Governmental services are the way they are.”

He almost jumps, startled out of his wits. Good Lord, how did Gay sneak up on him like that! Too many years of sitting behind a desk, and not enough practical work. He thinks ruefully. Then he proceeds to blush, realizing that he had managed to type quite an impressive amount of gibberish on his document during the time he had been sitting here, watching his date(?). 

“Oh…” Mycroft laughs nervously. “I am just working on a new secret code.”

“Really?” Sherlock arches an eyebrow dubiously. “Care to enlighten this common everyday man? Or is that classified?” 

“The latter, I am afraid.”

“Ooh, I do love a man of mystery.” 

Mycroft sighs. “Contrary to public belief, I am a rather simple man.”

“Now, now – there’s only so much self-deprecation I can take, Myc. I’ve got something for you.” 

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” _What spirits of generosity have possessed his brother, and for how long will they stay?_

Gay’s eyes (hidden behind dark contacts), seem to darken. “I’ve always been a selfish bastard, but I would like the chance to change my ways.” He then says even more quietly. “I didn’t expect this.” 

He then walks away and comes back with another red cup (this time it is Mycroft’s customary afternoon oolong tea, the tag hanging out of it indicating that the blend is his preferred one) and a small plate with fresh and recently warmed Portugese tarts (one of Mycroft’s guilty secrets) which look oddly like the ones from Mycroft’s favourite bakery a few streets down. 

When Mycroft picks up the cup to take a sip, he sees:

> Mygoff

And he smiles as he drinks and eats. As does Gay. It’s the endearing way Sherlock had pronounced his name when he had been a kid, as he had trouble enunciating the nuances of Mycroft. Somehow, it is this that tells him that everything will come out fine between himself and little brother. 

Gay watches him as he eats, not touching any of the food himself. 

“Thank you.” Mycroft says after the last crumb disappears. It’s nice to be looked after for once. By this variant of Sherlock. He could only hope that this isn’t a one off. 

He also wishes that Gay could remove those damnable contacts. But then again, it’s safer to do this incognito, considering how scandalous it would be for a ‘minor government official’ and a ‘consulting detective’ to be caught having incestuous relations. 

“You are welcome.” 

Gay-or rather Sherlock’s eyes seem to burn straight through Mycroft as his hand slowly reaches over to grasp his. Mycroft can’t continue this farce anymore and use Sherlock’s fake name. 

There is research done in 1989 by Kellerman, Lewis and Laird that suggests that when two strangers lock eyes for a moment or two (or more exactly two minutes), they could fall in love. However, their own situation doesn’t replicate the study environment used: they are not strangers (even though there have been times over the years where it felt like they certainly were), they are in a coffee shop (not a lab) and neither had they signed a consent for the spontaneous experiment that is already taking place. 

Right now. 

Mycroft isn’t sure who initiates what, but their lips somehow meet across the table, brushing tenderly against the other. He could feel the contours of that lovely cupid’s bow, and his fingers somehow find themselves entangled in Sherlock’s longish curly locks. It isn’t a wig, but rather bleached and dyed locks. It is soft and silky to the touch, and Sherlock almost purrs at the gentle combing motion through his hair.

God. He’s falling, drowning in the data that make up Sherlock. The taste of him, the feel of him and even the scent of him. Of coffee, Gay’s preferred cologne (which is similar to Sherlock’s own favourite) and that intrinsic musky (Sherlocky) scent. 

“God, Myc.” Sherlock gasps for air when they break apart. “Follow me!” 

* * * * *

A storage closet (with no CCTV cameras to serve as voyeurs) might not be the most romantic space to hold a tryst, but it does the job. It’s warm, cozy and dimly lit (the lightbulb clearly in its last throes). Sherlock and he are locked in a battle of lips, determined to explore and map every contour of the other’s, and hands (which had started innocently above the waist) were sliding ever so slightly downwards. Mycroft has never been so sexually excited in his life; the slow burn of arousal thrumming through his circulatory system, setting a fire of sorts in his nether regions. Their bodies are getting closer and Mycroft practically moans when Sherlock pushes him against an expanse of empty wall – his own groin coming into contact with his. 

Fuck. 

This feels so impossibly good. Sherlock is snogging him again, this time giving Mycroft’s upper lip a little nip, and he takes this distracted moment to gently slide his own tongue in. It’s electrifying. And even terrifying with equal measure. But Mycroft permits Sherlock to continue – feeling fortunate that he had the foresight to remove his suit jacket and waistcoat while waiting for Sherlock to close up the shop. Every spot where Sherlock comes into contact with seems to tingle, making Mycroft hyper aware of traditionally non-erogenous areas of his body – despite there being a layer of bespoke shirt between them. 

He sucks his gut in slightly when Sherlock’s hand rests upon it, but his brother breaks the kiss and says quietly. “Relax, Myc. Let me make you feel good.” _For once._

And then Mycroft gasps when cool air hits his bare genitalia. Sherlock had cunningly freed his cock from the confines of his trousers, and then with one smooth motion, he takes in the engorged mushroom head after grasping the shaft gently with one hand with his hot, wet mouth. 

Good fucking Lord. 

It’s been forever since he’s had a blowjob. His brother sucks gently, careful to prevent his teeth from nipping the sensitive flesh. However, it is evident that Sherlock is not an expert – likely having practiced on a substitute rather than the real thing. Regardless, it is an amazing sight, seeing his typically bratty sibling on his knees – his lips almost like the petals of an exotic flower surrounding his prick. Sherlock’s neck bobs up and down slowly, cautious not to take too much. Mycroft leans against the wall, torn between wanting to watch and keeping his eyes closed to enjoy more fully the toe-curling, belly-tingling sensations of pleasure that Sherlock evokes within him. 

God. 

His brother lets his cock free with an indecent sounding slurp, before suddenly rearranging them, and then Mycroft moans when his cock slips between Sherlock’s lubed thighs. His brother had planned how things would progress, and had prepared himself while sucking Mycroft. The channel is tight and slick, and Mycroft finds himself thrusting deeper and deeper, searching for the completion that he longs for as he fucks Sherlock against the wall. 

Sherlock permits a moan to slip away from him when Mycroft’s cock unintentionally brushes against his perineum. Somehow, knowing that the forbidden spot tucked away between his brother’s ample arse cheeks is so close in proximity spurs him on. Sherlock emits a needy little whine. Mycroft, whose hands had been grasping Sherlock’s hips for leverage, frees up one and reaches over for little brother’s cock (long, lean and very much weeping precum). He strokes, causing his brother to keen.

 _Yes. Yes. Yes. Come for me, Sherlock!_ Mycroft thinks urgently to himself, speeding up both his thrusts and the rate he frigs his brother – and finally, little brother’s shortened and increasingly stilted breaths give way to a long shuddering gasp, and he spills. Pounding between Sherlock’s thighs, his flesh making obscene smacking sounds with Sherlock’s own – Mycroft eventually pulls out and spills his ejaculate onto his brother’s bottom. 

God, what a sight. He thinks as he grabs onto his brother – both of them feeling wobbly after their respective climaxes. The small room is echoing with the laboured breathing from both. His hands slip from his brother’s sides. He turns Sherlock around to face him, and envelops his torso with his arms in a hug. 

Mycroft doesn’t know how long they stand there, with their pants and trousers around their ankles. But, there’s something warm, comforting and affectionate in their embrace – feelings that Mycroft hadn’t felt with another in so long. 

The most amazing thing is how none of this feels wrong. They are both old enough to know their own minds. Independent and stubborn enough that no one would take advantage of the other. There’s something precious here. Something worth pursuing, Mycroft reflects. 

When they finally break apart, Sherlock wipes away the cum from his bum with a wipe before putting himself back together. 

Mycroft finds himself uncharacteristically tongue-tied. Does Sherlock want to do this again? Or did he only want to do this as ‘Gay’. It seems wrong to see Sherlock like this. Not as himself, but under an alias. But, Sherlock steps forward, gently tugs at Mycroft’s tie and kisses him sweetly, before saying hesitantly. “Regretfully, there’s something I must do tonight, Myc. If you want to continue this, you know where to find me.” 

“I will see you tomorrow?”

“Perhaps.” Sherlock smiles cryptically at him, before finally opening the door. The outside is much colder than the closet, and Mycroft shivers somewhat. “I need to finish putting up the Christmas decorations. And I am not even getting paid overtime for this.” 

Sighing, Sherlock leads Mycroft back to the storefront. 

Before Mycroft reluctantly leaves with one last kiss, Sherlock brings him another bag – containing takeaway that suspiciously smells like an excellent Italian dinner, and hands him his partially finished cup of tea with ‘Mygoff’ written on it.

“Hopefully I will see you soon, Mycroft.” 

As Mycroft walks back out into the night, he wonders what exactly Sherlock is staying behind to do. It’s evident enough from Sherlock’s tone that little brother isn’t blowing him off because he found the sex and company not up to scratch. 

It certainly isn’t putting up Christmas decorations for a miserly manager.

* * *

**Day 4:**

When the Jag slows down as it pulls over to the kerb, Mycroft is stunned by what he sees. There are police cruisers everywhere. Yellow tape roping off a large portion of the block. Uniformed men and women swarming both the coffee shop and the neighbouring storefront. 

Looks like he is not going to have his morning coffee then. 

“Sir?” The intercom sputters to life. The voice of his reliable driver comes through. “Shall we move on to Whitehall then?”

“Very well.” Mycroft acknowledges, feeling just as ashen as the weather outside. 

There are even a few flakes of snow drifting downward, and he can only hope that Anthea is in some semblance of a good mood to provide him with drinkable coffee. 

And of course, that Sherlock is safe and sound after whatever it is he had done for his case the night before. 

* * * * *

“No coffee today, Sir?” Anthea asks after examining him with a critical eye.

“The shop was swimming in coppers, Anthea. There was yellow tape everywhere.” Mycroft says rather listlessly.

“Your brother’s doing, no doubt?”

“Presumably.” 

Anthea then quirks an eyebrow, having deduced something. “Oh. Ohh!”

“Anthea.” Mycroft says in a warning tone, having a bad feeling about what it is she had deduced. 

“Not saying a thing, Sir! Although I do have to say that whatever he wrote on your cup yesterday was rather suggestive in terms of where things were going. But maybe he left you a message in whatever he gave you yesterday?”

“Maybe.” Mycroft frowns. 

He had gone through the takeaway, finding a delicious fettuccine alla carbonara, a crunchy salad and a cupful of tiramisu. There hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary.

And wait, Anthea had nothing untoward to say about their unorthodox situation? 

“I will get you a _proper_ cup of coffee, Sir. No specialties from Chernobyl or Fukushima. I promise!” Anthea offers her reassurances with a small smile. “And, Sir, you have nothing to worry about from me. You _do_ deal with my cheek, after all.” 

Mycroft releases a long-suffering sound before walking over to his office to begin his day with a video conference. Hmph. No Chernobyl or Fukushima, she says – but a Kyshtym or a Three-Mile Island is still a devastating possibility!

God save him from all-too-helpful assistants!

* * * * *

The promised coffee arrives thirty minutes later, after Mycroft has his mind scrambled by the latest blunders performed by the Prime Minister. Anthea brings a mug and a coaster and leaves it on his desk within reach. 

“Sir, I looked into the situation at our coffee shop, and it seems that the owner has just been arrested for possession and dealing of contraband and human trafficking. When the police arrived early in the morning, they found our favourite barista and a tunnel in the basement leading to the vacant store next door. He showed the officers the records and pointed them in the direction of the children that were due to be sent out of the country this very evening. All the children were safely extracted. When the police went to go question the barista after, he had already disappeared.” 

“Presumably never to be seen.” Mycroft’s lips curl into a smile. Ah. The great Sherlock Holmes strikes again. “I suppose he dug the tunnel?”

“That, Sir, I do not know.” 

“Thank you, Anthea.” 

“That was more for my own curiosity.” Anthea then offers helpfully, “You could always text him, you know, Sir.”

Mycroft grumbles. 

That just seems awkward. 

“Ah. Men!” Anthea strides out, tutting in dissatisfaction. 

Daringly, Mycroft picks up the cup of coffee and drinks. 

It tastes like mud, but it will have to do. 

When his hand goes back to the cup to slide off the cardboard, Mycroft realizes what he hadn’t checked from yesterday’s cup. Pulling out his wallet as he had opted to keep the ‘Mygoff’ with him, he pulls out the piece of cardboard and looks on the other side. 

There’s a phone number. It isn’t Sherlock’s regular number, but perhaps brother dear had gotten a new one? 

He texts:

_Can I get a cuppa? MH_

_Anthea should never go near a coffee maker ever again. MH_

The response is practically instantaneous. 

_What do you think I am? Some sort of barista? SH_

Mycroft takes a breath, and types. 

_No. But I do hope that you are my lover? MH_

Sherlock doesn’t reply for minutes. God, Mycroft could feel his heart pound against his chest. He has never felt so vulnerable – so un-’Iceman’ like in his entire life. 

A picture gets sent first. It features the wooden surface of his own personal dining table for one. There is a saucer and a wide coffee cup filled to the brim with latte. 

In the middle floats a foam heart. 

_Come home, lover mine, if convenient. I am sure the nation can spare you for a day. SH_

Mycroft quickly glances over at his schedule. 

Then at the mug of subpar coffee.

Fuck it. 

_Coming! Anthea does, after all, owe me. MH_

* * * * *

* * * * *

After Mycroft leaves, Anthea rubs her hands together gleefully. 

Her work here is done. 

Then she looks at her calendar again. And grimaces.

The sacrifices she makes for Sir’s happiness!


	4. The Light over the Frost (Post-Sherrinford Soulmate AU; E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **4\. The Light over the Frost**  
>  **Rated:** E  
> Post-Sherrinford, Mycroft disappears only to make an appearance at Baker Street months later. Soulmate AU.  
>  **Tags:** Post-Sherrinford, Soulmate AU, Soulmarks, Fuck or Die, Angst, Hurt/Comfort  
>  **Words:** 4023  
> Time for a angsty fic!

The snow descends steadily upon London. The flakes drift to and fro slowly as Sherlock slowly places his Strad beneath his chin. The bow is heavy in his hand but not as heavy as how his heart feels in his chest. The skies outside are a foggy grey, lit by the soft glow of the street lamps that illuminate Baker Street. 

It is almost Christmas. It’s been over half a year since Sherrinford. 

He’s been lonely before when he had returned from the Fall. 

But it’s nothing like how he feels now. 

The horsehair kisses the strings, the [notes of the soundtrack](https://youtu.be/yF0GXh6uf3U) from a movie that he had seen long ago with John somberly fall; each note with the gentle quality of the snowflakes floating slowly downward, yet imbued with all the melancholy that he feels deep in his marrow. 

Behind him, he could hear John and Molly laughing freely in the kitchen. His former flatmate is attempting to finish a stuffed turkey dinner while the now pregnant pathologist is assisting. Lestrade is with them, entertaining Rosie and one of his own daughters. There is the homely clatter of utensils and plates as Mrs Hudson sets the table for the feast. 

_ Small and intimate. _

John had described the party to a barely-caring Sherlock a month ago. 

_ The Baker Street Family. _

Or at least, what it had once been. 

Sherlock has never felt more like an outsider. 

There has been too much that has happened. John and he had been drifting apart long before the East Wind had blown. Molly has never quite forgiven him for the ‘I LOVE YOU’. The gulf amongst them had only widened when his two friends had started to find solace in each other’s company over the last few months. Lestrade he still sees on occasion for cases, but even those grow fewer and fewer with every week that passes. 

These days, he carries on for the most part, alone. Surrounded by memory and the consequences of his own decisions. Both the good. And the bad. 

The notes swell as he progresses, adding his own variation to the theme. 

It’s fitting. He reflects. This piece, from a Russian film about ‘The Great Purge’ in the thirties occurs in the background when an army officer gives up his life so that a pretty young recruit could live. 

Sherlock feels as if he’s stuck in a cage. 

Stuck in that one terrifying moment in that awful room where Eurus had them all under her thrall. He could still feel the heft of the gun in his hand. Smell the propellant lingering in his nostrils. See that fateful moment where Mycroft had accepted death. 

That had been the single most incomprehensible thing that Sherlock had ever seen. That softness lingering in an Iceman’s eyes. 

What had Mycroft been seeing in what he had thought had been his last moments? 

Sherlock’s heart had been thawed by the truth, yet frozen by circumstance as he had lifted the gun. He had raised it higher and higher until it had been level with Mycroft’s heart. 

It had been a strange moment. 

Bizarre. 

Because at that moment, it had seemed that their hearts were in sync. Beating as one. 

As if shooting one brother would have been offing both. 

Two birds, one stone. 

How could Mycroft  _ think  _ that? Think that Sherlock could kill him in cold blood? 

It had cut him. Cut him to the very fundamentals of his being. 

Like splitting an atom and plunging him into his own nuclear winter. 

Once upon a time, they had been close. Where one went, the other was sure to follow. At that moment, the moment where Sherlock had lived over and over again – he had felt that. That wisp of familiar intimacy at the face of oblivion. It was a reminder of what things had been. The period in his life where he had been fortunate to feel the sun’s kiss against his skin.

At the end, he had sent Lestrade over at the end to check upon Mycroft. He should have gone himself. Because the next day, his brother was no longer living at his house. Even Anthea had no idea where Mycroft had gone. Or at least she had by lying through her teeth on his behalf. Mycroft never answered any of Sherlock’s texts. Nor picked up his phone calls. 

At first, Sherlock had thought… suicide. But it couldn’t be. Not because he knew for certain, but because of this strange gut feeling that he has. 

Intuition.

As much as he had laughed at the concept of intuition in the past, now he clings to it, for the alternative is too terrible to contemplate. 

Sherlock simply exists these days. Gets out of bed, does the bare minimum and promptly goes back to bed. There isn’t even any security detail anymore for his person. The therapist, Lestrade had recommended, but Sherlock despised shrinks. There is something broken in him, something he doesn’t quite know how to fix. He’s thought about the drugs in passing, but he couldn’t feel arsed to go get them. Plus, he already feels numb. Like someone had taken a spoon and hollowed him out. Completely.

He plays and plays, tuning everyone out. Even when Mrs Hudson conjoles him to sit down and eat. No, he jumps from piece to piece, his violin giving expression to what he cannot feel. What he cannot express. What he cannot understand. 

There’s a knock at the door. Who could that possibly be? Everyone is already accounted for at the Christmas table, minus him – Sherlock. But he hears Lestrade stand up to get the door, and he hears him say.

“Mycroft! It’s good to see you!” 

The next thing he knows is that he is looking at his brother. 

Time has not been kind to him. He looks exhausted and much older than his forty-four years. He’s lost a ridiculous amount of weight. He’s barely recognizable from when Sherlock had seen him last.

Yet all Sherlock could see is pain. 

His pain? 

Mycroft’s pain? 

It’s hard to say. 

Somehow, it’s one and the same.

“I should have known you would have come for the food.” Sherlock finds himself hissing, venting all his hurt feelings of being ignored. It’s a reflex, to be cruel. To stab his brother with words and twist it deep. An irony, for he could kill his brother slowly with a million lashes of his tongue, but couldn’t put him out of his misery with one bullet. “Guess someone told you that Mrs Hudson made her special chocolate cake.” 

“Sherlock…” His brother is dismayed, taking a step back as if Sherlock had physically struck him. “No… I couldn’t…”

“Couldn’t what?” Sherlock steps closer. “Couldn’t tell me about sister dear when we were finishing off Moriarty? You – who trusted me to dismantle Moriarty’s network, but you couldn’t tell me the truth? About our family?”

“Sherlock – please!” John is suddenly trying to wedge himself between them. 

“Or that you never responded to any of my texts? My calls? Emails? That you disappeared off the face of the Earth without telling  _ me? _ That you think me so bloody callous that I would shoot  _ you  _ in cold blood? Tell me then, brother  _ mine, _ how little you think of me.” Sherlock is practically snarling at this point, like a bloodhound who had just scented weakness in its favourite prey. 

“Sherlock…” Mycroft’s face is ashen. “Sherlock…” 

Before Sherlock could speak again, he suddenly feels lips against his own, effectively stunning him into silence. Suppressing the torrent of words that had been erupting in spurts from him. 

And in that brief moment, even staunching the pain. 

Good God. What is this? Mycroft’s lips are soft and pliable and it feels unbelievably… good? It feels like whatever that had been missing within him had been returned. Like two pieces of a puzzle being put together again? This is ridiculous, yet he feels it then – the beating of both their hearts. Together. As if they were – 

They break apart, and Sherlock could feel it then. A searing pain which cuts into his wrist – slowly spreading up his forearm, etching Mycroft’s name permanently against his flesh. 

The name of his soulmate. 

Fuck. He should have figured it out then. That one moment of intimacy between them back at Sherrinford. It had been a physiological warning. One that soulmates felt at the impending end. And the reason why Sherlock had felt like he had been dying since Sherrinford had happened. For he had met his soulmate at their moment of imminent peril and had failed to understand its significance. Failed to kiss and consummate their bond as the legends had dictated. 

And Mycroft… had figured it out? 

At that very moment? 

Mycroft’s finger gestures upward, and Sherlock could see the mistletoe hanging up above them in the living room. Before he could say another word, Mycroft grabs him by the wrist and pulls him into his bedroom, kicking the door shut and locking it behind them. 

So that they could talk. 

Privately. 

“Why?” Sherlock asks as soon as the lock clicked. “Why now? Why did you leave? If you knew?”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft sighs patiently. A shadow falls over his face. “I was… not in a good state after Sherrinford –”

“Well! Neither was I!”

Mycroft pushes onward. “I wanted to end it. I was actively suicidal. I had to call Anthea that evening. She helped me. Checked me into a place in Switzerland. Far away from civilization. I couldn’t risk it. If I had died…”

“Mycroft. Do you mean that all this time… you were able to feel what I felt?” Sherlock is absolutely bewildered as he thinks about his colourful past. The barest bits of guilt are starting to gnaw at him. But it made an odd sort of sense though. How big brother could always sense it when Sherlock had needed him. Be it drugs, danger or even that stint in Serbia. It had gone beyond surveillance. 

“Not exactly. But I could feel it when you were in great distress. I have to confess that the word soulmate never crossed my mind until you were pointing the gun at me in Sherrinford. It’s so incredibly rare, you know – Sherlock. This… bond. I knew then. But… I knew I needed to… work on myself, before I could attempt inflicting myself on you –”

_ “Inflicting? _ Mycroft!” Sherlock looks at him incredulously. He’s already feeling the pull of their bond; the need to be close – the need to be physically touching each other. “I was withering away without you! Literally dying. No, starving for something I could not name until now! You were always the smart one. I didn’t even realize what was wrong with me… And… you weren’t replying back to me, and I thought… that you didn’t care anymore. Or you were done with me. But I suppose that the  _ institution _ forbade you from contacting the outside world?”

Mycroft nods somberly. “I am so sorry, Sherlock. It was never my intention to hurt you. Little brother…” He whispers, his voice a gentle caress. It’s not a tone that Sherlock has ever heard Mycroft use before. 

Fingers reach upward and wipes away the tears that Sherlock is unknowingly shedding. The touch is tender, and it sends frissons of some uncharted sensation down Sherlock’s peripheral nerves. A type of pleasure that he had never experienced ever with drugs. Suddenly, most of the anxiety he has about bonding with his brother dies away, knowing their bodies would ease them into it with a potent biochemical cocktail.

“I was also afraid that you would reject our bond.” Mycroft admits as they both sit on Sherlock’s unmade bed. “Thus dooming us both to a slow death. Eurus would have won then.” He then says after a brief pause. “I had to prove it to you.”

“By driving me towards the mistletoe?”

Mycroft smiles wryly. “It had to be done. A kiss is usually how other pairs find each other. It was fortuitous that you were so angry, my dear – that you didn’t realize what my objective was.” 

His words are light, but Sherlock knows that his previous words have drawn blood. Also, if Sherlock had known that Mycroft was deliberately trying to get him under the mistletoe, he might have made a run for it. 

Sherlock lets Mycroft envelop his arms around him, and he sinks with relief into Mycroft’s embrace. His brother’s hands are roaming about, gently stroking his back. One hand sneakily slides into his hair, and Sherlock sighs when Mycroft guides him into another kiss. He could feel all the pain start to disappear once more and the heaviness in his chest is replaced by a buoyant lightness. 

It’s even easier to breathe. 

There is a growing urge to be naked, to have as much of his skin touching Mycroft’s as soon as humanly possible. 

And then he has a (horrifying) thought – 

“God, are we going to do it right here? I want to shower. And… there’s people outside!”

“They will understand.” Mycroft reassures. “We really shouldn’t put it off any longer, especially if the legends are true. We are only going to grow weaker and weaker from here.”

“There are too few data points, Mycroft.”

“I know.” Mycroft holds him tighter, and presses a kiss against Sherlock’s curls. 

“I’ve… I’ve never done this before.” A flare of self-doubt plagues Sherlock. 

“Oh, Lock. It doesn’t matter. Not to me.” 

Those blue eyes though! That same softness that Sherlock had seen on that day. Of care. Of a man looking at the one he feels most about. Sherlock finds himself slipping out of Mycroft’s arms and going on his arms and knees, presenting his bum to his brother. 

Mycroft unexpectedly chuckles and pushes Sherlock playfully on the flank, forcing him to roll onto his back. “God, Sherlock, darling – you really have no idea, do you? There is something called foreplay. Sex is supposed to be fun. Not for one party to lie down and think of Queen and country.” 

Before Sherlock could retort, his brother straddles him and leans down to snog him thoroughly. Hands are savouring his torso through his bespoke shirt with its buttons being undone by clever fingers, exposing Sherlock’s flesh to the cool air. It causes goosebumps to form in their wake. By the time Mycroft had finished divesting him of his clothes – Sherlock is quivering with need. 

Mycroft strips too with a little help. Soon they are tumbling on the bed sheets, and Sherlock sighs, whimpers and loses himself to sensation when Mycroft patiently teases and maps out his erogenous zones with his fingers, lips and even teeth. During one lucid moment, Sherlock reaches out to his nightstand to fumble for the bottle of lube that he uses sparingly for the days his transport had needed release. 

He tosses it to his brother.

“You know, you don’t have to be the recipient.” Mycroft says quietly, bringing his brother’s torso closer to him. 

“Just do it, My – I want it.” Sherlock says firmly, following an unknown instinct. “God – look at you. I see you in my dreams every night you know… in that wretched room.”

“God, Lock – it all seems like a lifetime ago –”

“I know. My… I wouldn’t have done it. You know. Even if I hadn’t felt that connection between us. I couldn’t.” Sherlock is tearing up again. “I… I –” 

“Shh…” Mycroft kisses him again. “We have a long lifetime to figure things out after this. If you are so willing –”

Sherlock gasps at the instant when Mycroft’s cunning fingers find that hidden spot between his arse cheeks. He could feel the both of them shiver when he feels the tip of the lube-slicked digit carefully breach that tightly furled hole. 

“Okay?” Blue eyes look at him ever so carefully.

“Yeah. God. Please – do go on.” Sherlock holds onto his brother as the finger makes its way deeper, circling tentatively around that sensitive flesh. 

Sherlock laments how gaunt his brother is now. That he could have lost his soulmate that day. And possibly his own life. All the pain, suffering and suffocating guilt that his brother most have felt at the end. When the adrenaline finally had finally worn off and reality came crashing cruelly down. He doesn’t deserve Mycroft. Who had obviously clung desperately onto the fact that Sherlock still had need of him in order to prevail over his own demons. 

A second finger nudges at his anus, and he struggles to relax as the digit stretches him even wider. It’s uncomfortable, yet at the same time – the need has turned into a raging inferno. This need to become one with the man whom nature had picked out as his complement. 

When there are three fingers, Sherlock is moaning into his brother’s shoulder with his hips bucking uncontrollably as Mycroft scissors him, his fingertips have finally found that sweet spot. “Oh, God – My – just… fuck me already.” He pleads.

“Patience.” Mycroft kisses his cheek.

“You know that patience is a virtue that I distinctly – fuck.” Sherlock could feel his brother’s lube-slathered prick nudging at his hole. 

“Fuck is correct. Although I do wish for it to mean more with –”

“There’s no words that describe –” Sherlock gasps with his brother in tandem when the tip of Mycroft’s formidable glans finally pops into his hole. He bites down on his brother’s neck to prevent the loud noise that threatens to escape him. This is pain. Ecstasy. Intimacy that he had never known was possible. “Describe what you mean to me.” He struggles with his words. 

They work together. Mycroft rocking his hips back and forth while Sherlock controls the speed of the penetration, trying to get used to this unusual sensation. When he finally works the entirety of his brother’s cock into his arse, he groans – extending his neck back – feeling the intensity of being penetrated like this. 

His brother kisses him soothingly, and after a breather, Mycroft starts to thrust slowly. 

The discomfort is disappearing fast, and all Sherlock is soon riding upon wave after wave of pleasure which ripple throughout the entirety of his body. 

It’s tempting to just keep his eyes closed and feel, but partway through, Sherlock decides that he wants to watch. To see Mycroft in the throes of uncontrolled pleasure. To see him without his shields. The persona that he had honed throughout the previous decades. To see truly who Mycroft really is.

Something tender unfurls within his chest. 

A love(?) that Sherlock had never felt before. His brother had shaved and washed before coming here (of course, Mycroft had known what was going to happen). 

There’s something in seeing Mycroft at his most vulnerable, and yet despite this – he could tell that Mycroft’s attention is entirely focused on him – to make sure that he doesn’t cause Sherlock any undue pain (as unnecessary as it all is). They would have to redefine their relationship. Sherlock knows he can’t have Mycroft be his caretaker and guardian like he had been in the past. They would have to split the responsibility. 

He wants to be an equal. 

A worthy partner to Mycroft.

And then the pleasure crests – the unrelenting drive toward the inevitable. They are both watching each other, intent on not missing a thing. His brother’s hand is entangled within his curls again, playing with them as Sherlock had liked him to do when they had been younger. 

It almost seems like they are both waiting for something. 

“Sherlock. Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice is hoarse. His breaths are growing increasingly laboured, as are Sherlock’s. “Sherlock – my dear. God… my beautiful darling –” A hand finds its way to Sherlock’s own neglected (and very much erect) prick and strokes. “Cum… when you are ready. I will –”

“Always catch you.” Sherlock smiles, finishing the sentence. “Mycroft. My…” He gasps and then succumbs to orgasm, feeling shockwaves of pleasure rock his transport. 

His brother thrusts harder, practically pounding into his bottom – and Sherlock finds that he rather likes getting fucked stupid while his mind is flooded with post-orgasmic neurotransmitters. And then, he could feel Mycroft cum with a grunt – and hot seed spills deep within him – sealing that ancient bond that had been revered and envied since the days of prehistoric men. Sherlock practically whines when Mycroft slips his now flaccid cock out of his arse.

“I take it that this is something that you want to do again.”

“My… don’t tease.” Sherlock nuzzles his face against his shoulder. His senses are slowly becoming aware of all the minutiae that he had missed during his need to be whole with his brother, including all that delicious fur decorating his chest. 

On a whim, he grasps his brother’s right hand with his left – and on their wrists – etched in a bright scarlet red are their names. Sherlock on his brother’s. Mycroft on his. Streaks of gold run in a slant on their arms, looking rather like tiger stripes, shimmering, dancing and glowing in the dimmed room. It isn’t subtle by any means, but it does remove any ambiguity.

They are both content to lie next to each other, despite Sherlock having cum dribbling out of his arse. Even though it is winter, it feels like Sherlock is experiencing the emergence of spring. He feels rejuvenated. Excited and happy in a way that he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

For once, he is hopeful for what the future brings.

His brother’s arm is still slung around him, holding him close. Sherlock can feel an undercurrent of satisfaction emanating from Mycroft. With the glow of the soulmarks, he could see that Mycroft looks less emaciated than earlier, looking less like someone who had suffered an incurable chronic illness. 

_Mycroft is handsome._ _And he smells nice too. Of tea, musk, aftershave and cologne._ Sherlock observes, just as he hears an unwelcome knock at the door.

“Sherlock? Mycroft? You two alright?” Lestrade’s voice floats through the door. “You two have been in there for an awfully long time… We are just wondering if you have finally killed each other off or something…”

Sherlock gives his brother an incredulous look. How could they  _ not  _ know what they had been doing? They hadn’t been exactly… quiet. 

But then again, everyone had been in the kitchen, feasting. Chatting. Doing whatever it is they do at such functions. There is Christmas music being played from somewhere – presumably switched on after Mycroft had dragged him to his room. And the four walls of his room offer decent soundproofing. 

The floor, however, is another matter altogether. But then again, no one had been downstairs to hear their sex noises and the creaking of his bed when Mycroft had fucked into him. 

Gods, he’s really going to be feeling it tomorrow.

His brother mouths. “Goldfish! They will believe what they want to believe.”

Sherlock calls out. “We are still alive. Just… sorting out our differences.”

“Okay, okay! I am glad.” Lestrade exclaims with audible relief. “It’s about time, really. Just letting you know that Mrs H will set aside some food and drink for the two of you in the fridge, should you wish for a nibble afterwards. I am going to leave in a few with John and Molly as my daughter has a playdate tomorrow morning.” 

“Thanks Lestrade! Tell the rest Merry Christmas and Happy New Year on my behalf. No need to come bother us, I am afraid our much-needed  _ discussion  _ will take quite a long while.” 

“Will do. Happy New Year to you both too! Cheers for everything!” Lestrade says happily, apparently loath to get in the way of some much-needed brotherly(?) bonding.

Sherlock turns back to Mycroft after he hears the copper head back to the kitchen. He asks shyly even though he is aware that the feeling is mutual, “Would you stay the night? I… I don’t want you to leave me.”  _ Ever. _

“Course, Lock. Anything.” Mycroft nuzzles him, the barest of stubble brushing against his face.

Sherlock hums happily in response. He lets his fingers intertwine themselves in Mycroft’s sturdy digits, enjoying the pleasure of being together. 


	5. An Alpha's Choice (ABO dynamics; M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock is about to leave for Pakistan to save Irene, he receives a call.  
>  **Tags:** Alpha/Omega/Beta dynamics, Alpha!Sherlock, Omega!Mycroft, dom/sub undertones, Angst, Jealous!Mycroft  
>  **Word Count:** 6075

_ John’s gone to work? Check. _

_ Bugs removed from flat? Check. _

_ Knapsack packed? Check. _

_ False papers? Check.  _

_ Plane tickets? Check – _

His phone begins to ring. 

_ Damn it! Not now!  _

Planning to verbally eviscerate whoever is on the other end of the line, he picks it up.

“Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Sherlock?” 

“Anthea?” 

Oh god, why is she calling him? Now out of all times? 

She never calls him! 

Fuck! Did he get caught already? This is certainly a new record. He had hoped to be out and back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. 

Time is ticking. 

Not for him. 

But for  _ her. _

“What do you want?” He tries to keep his voice normal. 

“It’s… it’s your brother.”

“What about him? I am busy!” 

“He’s…” At Anthea’s pause, a shiver runs down Sherlock’s spine. 

Oh God. Did big brother finally eat too much and explode? Did someone shoot him? Did he just get diagnosed with a terminal illness? Did he go into heat and have someone take advantage of him? 

“He’s what, Anthea?” 

“He’s not well. Frankly, Sherlock – in this state – he is more of a liability than an asset to the –”

“Oh dear, you aren’t telling me that he’s in heat is he? What am I supposed to do about it? I am his –”

“No, Sherlock – he’s been  _ avoiding _ his heats. I am sure of it.”

“Avoiding?” Sherlock is baffled. “Could this wait?”

“Sherlock, please – I wouldn’t call you if I wasn’t desperate! I told him to go home, but he refuses to! He’s made no less than seven uncharacteristic major mistakes since the morning, and almost started a war between two countries within the last few hours… The long story short is that if you care at all for your brother, please come take him off my hands!”

Amazing. So this is what it's like to be on the other side of things. He’s never heard Anthea sound so frantic before. 

He asks one more question.

“What makes  _ you  _ think I can handle him better than you?”

“You are an Alpha. For some strange reason I cannot fathom, your brother is rather fond of you. And deep down in your cynical little and not-so-sociopathic heart, I think some part of you cares about him too.”

_ Her life is at stake. Well, she’s technically already dead, but now she will be dead for certain.  _ Sherlock sighs in resignation. “Fine. I will come at once. Whitehall is it?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Anthea actually sounds… grateful!

Hanging up, Sherlock quickly takes off his disguise, hides his fake papers, unpacks his knapsack and gets ready to retrieve his brother. His plan to fly to Pakistan is a bust anyways. If he had refused, Anthea would have pried a little deeper into Sherlock’s activities. Undoubtedly when Mycroft is in a better state of mind she would tell him and he would be furious. 

Besides, picking  _ the woman _ over his brother was  _ so  _ last year.

_Allah yerhamha._ _< May Allah have mercy on her soul.> _

* * * * *

Anthea leads Sherlock without a word to Mycroft’s private sanctum. When he enters, he takes one whiff and grimaces. Obviously his brother had left the realm of rational thought quite a while ago for he had forgotten to put on his Beta-scent spray. Which is something Mycroft never goes without! 

And dear god, Mycroft reeks of post-heat stress hormones that an Omega exudes when they haven’t had an Alpha to ‘service’ them through their heat. As he continues to sample the air, he knows that Mycroft had actually gone into heat in this very room, and had only come out of it barely a few hours ago. The whole room would probably have to be fumigated.

“I had to bar the door, you see.” Anthea says nonchalantly, pointing back to her office, where just off to the side of the main door, there is a formidable mix of assorted furniture from side tables, chairs and even a spare desk. “Alphas were trying to force their way in yesterday. You know how there is no use reasoning with an Alpha thinking with their nether regions.” 

Anthea ignores the glare that Sherlock levels her way.  _ Not all Alphas are such primitive beings with no self-control! _ Sherlock seethes while the Beta continues. “I did ask Sir earlier what he was thinking! We narrowly averted a major domestic… or rather an international scandal! The Prime Minister was here, so was Lady Smallwood, the American and Japanese contingents (you know how little control  _ they  _ have when it comes to what one Alpha put crudely ‘a bitch in heat’) who were meeting with our diplomats just a few hallways down – had to get security to declare a Code Pink and clear the area. I also had to issue a notice – saying that one of Sir’s agents went into a premature heat –”

“Sounds like quite an ordeal.” Sherlock interjects.  _ Damn! Mycroft had always been so desperate to hide his secondary gender away! But never to the point of denial! _

“And you know what Sir said to me? This morning? That he had ‘forgotten’! And that he apologizes for the ‘inconvenience’.” 

“I think, Anthea – I can take it from here. You can… um – clean house and go home?” Sherlock realizes just now how frazzled and irate Anthea is. 

“Clean house?!” Anthea almost growls. “More like the Augean Stables!” Grumbling, she starts to head back to her desk, rolling up her sleeves as if she was really going to go muck some stables. “I am here if you need help dealing with His Unreasonableness.” 

Sherlock feels like his reality had been flipped upside-down and left side-right. Anthea must be really mad if she had indirectly called her boss a ‘bitch in heat’. 

His brother had perfected the art of ‘living as a Beta’, so it’s rather shocking to see him like this now. Slumped over his desk, barely awake – obviously struggling to tackle whatever it is that is next on his agenda. He’s lost weight recently – he looks like he hasn’t slept at all in days. It could be a career-ruining scandal if people outside discover Mycroft’s secondary gender, so it’s not uncommon for Omegas to masquerade as Betas in positions of power. 

He steps in and closes the door behind him. 

“My… Mycroft?” His words fall tentatively as he cautiously approaches the Omega. “Mycroft? Big brother? Mycroft?!” 

Mycroft doesn’t appear to hear him. One of his fingers presses a key on his keyboard, and Sherlock gawks at the amount of typos and errors that are littered all over the document on the main screen. This is a man who loathes abbreviations and emoticons in texting!

“Mycroft!” Sherlock grabs him by the shoulders and shakes vigorously. 

His brother finally looks at him. And he chuckles! Indulgently! _Okay, clearly big brother is not in the right frame of mind._ _Did someone drug him?_

“Why are you plaguing me now, Lockie?” 

_ Lockie!? _ Good god!  _ He hasn’t been called that since he’s been a child! _

“I have work to do.” Mycroft continues to mumble on, looking at Sherlock with this strange expression, as if he isn’t really there.  _ Oh! He’s hallucinating. Or at least… he thinks he’s hallucinating. Fascinating. _ “Off you go!”

“Mycroft. It’s me. Sherlock. I’ve come to take you home.” He tries another tactic. 

“Sher… lock?” Mycroft reaches up to touch Sherlock’s cheek, running his finger against his zygomatic arch. “No. Sherlock is on a plane.”

“A plane?”

“Yes, Lockie. Sherlock is on a plane. To play the knight in shining armour.” He then laughs crazily, but it makes Sherlock feel one inch tall. “He thinks he’s above it all, but oh no – he’s just like any other Alpha. Wants to show off to some silly Omega. Show her that he can betray Queen and Country with impunity, and walk off as a free man. No consequences. Now he wants to show her how  _ gallant _ he is. Typical Alpha posturing. After what? Some show of heart? Of interest? Ah. Silly little brother.” 

Mycroft turns away from him and resumes his pitiful typing. 

“Then… why did you let him go?” Sherlock asks curiously.

“Lockie. I have to let him make his own decisions. He’s a big boy now. Alpha.”

_ His brother sounds… oddly jealous.  _

“Why… are you neglecting yourself like this?”

Mycroft’s eyes sharpen. “I am not neglecting myself.”

“When was the last time you had an Alpha?”

“Alpha? My Alpha? I don’t have an Alpha.” Mycroft replies curtly. “Don’t need one.” 

“Oh Mycie.” Sherlock figures its best to join the natives. “Look at you. You are a mess. I don’t even think  _ you  _ know what you are typing.” He sits on Mycroft’s desk, knocking over a few files in the process. “And you do need one. You are going to get sick if you don’t. If you already aren’t.”

“Lockie – you rascal, get off my desk!” 

“No.” Sherlock crosses his arms. “Mycie… you can’t keep running away from your needs…”

“And I can read what I am typing –” Mycroft scrolls up the document and attempts to read the first sentence. 

Sherlock gives him a sad smile. The text on screen is absolutely incomprehensible. 

“You aren’t hallucinating, you know. This is real.”

“No. Sherlock should be at Heathrow right now. Finding his gate, perhaps. He would never be here. Willingly. I only have you… Lockie. Not Sherlock.”

“You are in heat-drop, Mycie. It’s only going to get worse with time.” Sherlock tries to speak facts, but he feels like they are talking in circles, avoiding the real crux of the issue at hand. “Worse with every heat you do not spend with an Alpha. And… Sherlock does care about you, Mycie. I can promise you that.” 

Mycroft gives him a dubious look, and Sherlock only wants to go dig himself a hole and bury himself in it. There’s something so depressing, so wrong about his big brother looking like this. Suddenly he’s very glad that he’s chosen to come here instead. His brother has never seemed so human in Sherlock’s eyes. Always, he had always seemed invulnerable. All-powerful one-person British Government. __

_ It’s always easier to love someone who needs you…  _

Sherlock struggles to remember what to do for someone in heat-drop. He’s not exactly well-versed in these types of things. John had always gone elsewhere for Alpha-attention. And Sherlock never wanted to do anything that involved Omegas, aside from his day-to-day casework. And Irene… had been a good case. He isn’t interested in taking her on a date. Let alone fucking her through one of her heats. Or having her dominate him with her collection of whips and chains.

He shudders at this. 

_Touch._ _An Alpha’s touch._ He remembers reading. _Could go a long way to calming a distressed Omega down._ So gingerly, Sherlock reaches out and touches Mycroft’s poorly shaven cheek. His brother had actually cut himself shaving at some point. The pad of his finger gently rubs circles on the injured skin.

At first Mycroft seems indifferent to his touch, but eventually he starts leaning into Sherlock’s fingers – seeking more. His head finds his way onto Sherlock’s thigh – using it as a pillow, and Sherlock gently combs through his thinning hair. His brother sighs with something akin to pleasure, and Sherlock uses just a little bit more force, and Mycroft makes a strange sound of contentment.  _ When was the last time Mycroft had someone to look after him? _ Sherlock wonders, trying to recall in the past if Mycroft had shown signs of having had an Alpha. 

_ Food and Water.  _ Sherlock recollects instead, and he highly doubts Mycroft would take any nourishment from him. All he had fed his brother in the past were his unfunny diet jokes. Which no Omega would have tolerated well. Perhaps, big brother was the same? Yes, which is why Sherlock had told them, knowing that they hurt the Omega inside of him. That creature that Mycroft had spent his lifetime taming or rather shoving in a dark closet to be forgotten. 

His brother’s hair is soft under his fingers. Sherlock himself finds the interaction soothing. He has never touched an Omega like this before. He had always run the other way when intimacy was involved. He had always left Lestrade or John to handle the comforting of distressed Omegas during his cases. 

There is an odd sort of feeling rising in his chest. From his neglected organ, perhaps. The heart? Sadness? Tenderness for this equally neglected portion of Mycroft’s being? 

_ If Mycroft was of sound mind, he would never permit this from Sherlock.  _ He sighs wearily.  _ And why would he? _ They are brothers for one. It’s not unheard of for a sibling to derive comfort like this from another, but it’s highly unconventional.  _ And when was the last time he did something nice for Mycroft?  _ Probably never. At least not in recent memory. He had cracked the code to Irene’s phone at the end, but that had been the bare minimum. It was he after all who had been tricked into betraying the country that Mycroft had served all his life with duty.

Mycroft will kill him for this, but it’s worth a try.

_ “Omega.” _ Sherlock tries to use the Voice. 

That special voice that Alphas use to Dominate. He hardly ever uses it, maybe once or twice when things had been dire and he didn’t need goldfish brains to question his commands, such as ‘Get out of the way!’ or ‘Duck!’. Omegas and Betas are typically susceptible, and even some Alphas. Mycroft is probably resistant to it, considering how many Alphas would gleefully try to Dominate each other, especially in a treacherous world such as politics. 

But surprisingly, his brother looks up, looking incredibly lost. Sherlock continues to caress his scalp, and Mycroft asks cautiously. His voice is fragile, and Sherlock could almost hear his heart shatter.

“Alpha?” 

“Yes, I am an  _ Alpha.”  _ Sherlock wonders who Mycroft thinks he is now. 

“Alpha…” Mycroft looks at him in some sort of wonder as if saying ‘where have you been all this time?’. 

_ Heat-drop is a helluva thing… _

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but continues running his fingers through Mycroft’s hair – taking his time to trace the contours of his brother’s skull. 

“Alpha, what do you want from me?” Mycroft asks feebly of him. 

“Let me… take care of you, Omega?” 

“Take care of me?” There is a trembling quality to Mycroft’s voice. As if he’s terrified out of his wits. There’s also a note of disbelief. “If… that’s what Alpha wants.”

“Alpha would like to.” Sherlock has never felt so silly in his life. Has Mycroft ever had a positive intimate interaction with an Alpha after he had presented as an Omega? He deduces the negative. “Should we go back to your place, Omega?”

“No need.” Mycroft reaches for something underneath his desk. There is the grinding of hidden machinery, and then one of the nearby bookshelves swings open, revealing a secret area that Sherlock has never seen before. “My home away from home, Alpha.”

His brother attempts to stand up. Sherlock slides off the desk and supports him as he stumbles into what looks like a well-furnished bedroom with an adjoining loo. 

“You need a shower, Omega.” Sherlock assesses. “There’s no way you would be able to hide your nature without one, I am afraid.” 

“Hiding. Hiding. Tired… of hiding, Alpha –”

“Sh… you don’t need to hide in front of me. I promise. Omega, would you… would you let me look after you?” Sherlock asks again for permission, considering that Mycroft had never affirmed it to begin with. 

The Omega (or really, Mycroft – considering Omega and Mycroft are two sides of the same coin) looks like he wants to burst into tears. Sherlock finds himself hugging his brother close to him, letting him cry. Considering how society (and Alphas) treat Omegas, he isn’t surprised that this side of Mycroft has been struggling for recognition after being repressed for so long. 

Omegas were considered to be the fairer and weaker sex in the public eye. And Sherlock hadn’t helped either, always teasing Mycroft about any Omega tendency that he (un)consciously performed. Mycroft had taken it – the jibes and insults – without a fuss, and no doubt over the years, had used them to prune the behaviours and mannerisms that he had perceived were weaknesses. Undesirable. Creating the ‘Iceman’ persona that he had donned throughout his professional career.  _ The ‘Beta’ who ought to be an ‘Alpha’. _

Thinking about his brother like this makes Sherlock feel like the biggest arsehole that had ever walked the planet. Very few, if any Omegas could be like Irene, weaponizing both her sexuality and intelligence to bring Alphas under her thrall. Indeed, she had flipped the script for what is conventional between Alphas and Omegas.

Two very different creatures. 

“There, there…” Sherlock murmurs awkwardly as he rubs comforting shapes on Mycroft’s back. “Omega, would you?”

Mycroft looks up at him. So vulnerable under the dim lighting of the room. His eyes are bright with tears. He gives one small nod of his head, and Sherlock whispers quietly – opting not to use his Alpha voice. “Would you kneel for me, Omega?” 

Initially, Mycroft’s stillness after Sherlock utters the question makes Sherlock fear that his brother wouldn’t obey, but after a heart-thumping minute, the Omega slowly kneels down, using Sherlock’s body as support. His head rests on Sherlock’s thigh and some strange sensation seems to squeeze at Sherlock’s heart. And then Sherlock realizes with some sort of horror that Mycroft is nuzzling at his crotch with his cheek. Good God, what did these Alphas make Mycroft do in the past?

“My-Omega – please… stop!” Sherlock tries to walk backwards, only to be restrained by his brother’s arms. 

Mycroft does stop, but the look he gives Sherlock is absolutely heartbreaking. “Am I… not pleasing Alpha?”

“God… Omega –”

“Am I… doing something wrong? 

“No… My –”

“Tell me what to do! Alpha… Alpha, I don’t want you to go. I will be good… I promise.”

“Sh… Omega.” 

Sherlock rests a hand on top of Mycroft’s head, gently caressing his scalp. His brother leans into the touch, fearing that if he doesn’t maintain contact with Sherlock, Sherlock would disappear. 

Good God. Never had he dreamed that he would be standing here with his brother out of all people telling him (no, begging him!) that ‘he would be good’. His brother is the goodie-two-shoes out of the pair of them. Sherlock tempers down the rage that is building in him, for his brother’s behaviour seems to reflect more on the Alphas he’s been with rather than himself. In the old days, Sherlock would have never let his brother live this down, but now… there’s something deep in him that wants to look after Mycroft. This is his brother crying out for help at the most critical moment, and Sherlock takes a deep breath and counts to ten. The shower then. To get rid of the evidence that his brother had been in heat. 

“Strip for me then, Omega.” Sherlock orders.

Another hesitation, and Mycroft capitulates, his fingers clumsily undoing the buttons to his rumpled pinstripe waistcoat. Sherlock takes the moment to investigate the drawers, looking for something clean and soft for Mycroft to change into. He finds a set of silky Persian blue pyjamas. Seeing that his brother is still struggling with his task, Sherlock kneels down in front of his brother and bats his hands away. Exasperatedly he says.

“Let me do it.”

“Alpha –” Mycroft is flummoxed and sad in equal measure – dismayed that he had failed such a simple task. 

“No, Omega – let me.” Sherlock carefully removes the waistcoat, enjoying the silky texture of the material. “You are completely out of it. I promise I won’t leave until you tell me to.” 

Next goes the shirt and the tie, and Sherlock swallows a little when he tackles his brother’s belt and trousers – realizing that he’s about to see all of the anatomy of Mycroft. His brother’s (surprisingly) trim body comes into view. Curvy and soft as Omegas usually are. Handsome, with a sprinkling of reddish fur on his chest and down his navel. There is his smaller Omega-cock which is rather large for his gender, and Sherlock finds himself swatting away Mycroft’s hands again when he tries to cover himself. Not because Sherlock would see, but because Mycroft is embarrassed of his own body. And it saddens him. Immensely. He’s beginning to see why big brother has eschewed seeing Alphas altogether, at the detriment of his own health (and perhaps life!). “Don’t. Don’t do that in front of me. Don’t hide yourself, Omega.”

“But –” Mycroft hangs his head in shame.

“Omega.” Sherlock says warningly, and seeing the pain in Mycroft’s eyes, he quickly soothes. “You did nothing wrong, Omega.” 

Tenderly, he cups his brother’s face with both his hands, and traces the makeup of his facial bones. 

This has been a long time coming, perhaps. How did he not notice Mycroft’s deteriorating condition before? Irene. He sighs. Not to mention that Mycroft is the best at hiding what ails him. 

His brother is melting at his touch, going slack in a way Sherlock had never expected Mycroft of being capable of.

“You are gorgeous. Omega.” Sherlock quietly praises, knowing that his brother needs the positivity. And because… it’s very much true. “Come with me. I guess we will both have to take a shower.” 

By now, Sherlock is sure that Mycroft’s pungent post-heat scent is all over him as well, so he will have to borrow some of big brother’s clothes too. Or perhaps he would text Anthea and ask her to fetch him a change of clothes from Baker Street. And maybe even the basket of unwashed laundry from Baker Street. Clothes with an Alpha scent to them would help. 

“Yes, Alpha.” Mycroft murmurs, standing up shakily to follow Sherlock into the loo. 

The bathroom is utilitarian, furnished with the basic products that Mycroft uses to get throughout the day. There is the Beta spray for instance, along with the toiletries. Sherlock shoos him into the shower, before quickly stripping himself – letting his own clothes fall to the ground. He tries to ignore that ‘hungry?’ look that Mycroft gives him as his eyes rake over Sherlock’s body, but it’s hard. Irene had looked at him in a similar fashion, but somehow – it is his brother that manages to stir something within him, and he quickly temps it down. 

Fuck. In this state, Sherlock is sure his brother would let him take him, but he’s sure that that would be the end of their relationship – at least, the end of a relationship that is already in tatters. Mycroft would never forgive him for taking advantage of him in this position. And he is sure that this isn’t what Mycroft actually needs. Mycroft needs an Alpha who cares. An Alpha who didn’t treat him as a fucktoy to be discarded after his heat. 

Sherlock reaches over and turns on the water, pulling Mycroft out of the way before the initial burst of cold water could hit him. When the water reaches the desired temperature, Sherlock quickly guides his brother to the spray, finds the shampoo and conditioner and before he turns around, Mycroft is already on his knees. 

“Alpha… please.” Mycroft leans over a little, his nose almost in contact with Sherlock’s sizable cock. 

“No. Omega. Don’t. You will never forgive me afterwards.” Sherlock says firmly, using his hands shampoo Mycroft’s thinning locks – another thorn for an Omega to cope with. “You aren’t yourself –”

“This is me. Alpha. Please don’t… reject me.” Mycroft rests his head on Sherlock’s thigh again, his cheek barely milimetres away from his crotch. 

“I am not rejecting you. Let me get you clean and we can talk.”

“Talk, Alpha?” Mycroft makes the mistake of opening his eyes and he closes them firmly in agony when the soapy-water ends up in them. “You said you wouldn’t leave. I… I’ve been waiting for you all my life, Alpha.” 

“All your life?” Sherlock is curious even though he knows that there is a possibility that what his brother says is a result of a heat-scrambled brain. “What do you even mean, Omega? Tell me.”

“They say… that every Omega has an Alpha. And that when an Omega meets the right one, they would know.”

Now this is lunacy. 

Mycroft has been seeing Sherlock for well… all of Sherlock’s life. And certainly, he must know that Sherlock is not his Alpha. And that Sherlock is not exactly prime Alpha material for any Omega. It’s romantic balderdash. But somehow, Sherlock knows that the wisest course of action is to keep his mouth shut. Or perhaps he’s always known this general principle, but was always too much of a smartarse to keep the trap closed. Does Mycroft even know who is standing in front of him? Washing him? Or is he that delirious? He could only imagine his brother’s horror to be found in this state by his bratty little brother. 

The conditioner goes on next, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to use the body wash to lather up Mycroft’s body. He is tempted to linger and explore this unexpectedly attractive body, but he hurries – pushing all uncharacteristically indecent thoughts out of his mind. 

“Alpha doesn’t find me attractive.” Mycroft deduces sadly after Sherlock had washed his legs. He then adds dejectedly while looking down at his torso. “No Alpha does.”

“And how do you figure that, Omega?” 

Sherlock takes another breath and gingerly handles his brother’s private parts, lathering them gently. The only other genitalia he’s handled besides his own had been cadaver parts, so it’s definitely a novel experience. Mycroft’s face takes on a strained expression, and he answers.

“The way you touch me… as if it is a chore. I suppose it is…” 

How does he even answer that? Sherlock sighs inwardly. Yes, he is washing his brother. Yes, he’s trying to mitigate the awkwardness that would no doubt result when Mycroft regains his senses by detaching himself from the situation. But seeing that defeated look on Mycroft’s face hurts in a way that Sherlock had never experienced in his life. He’s never cared for an Omega in his life. All these feelings and sensations bubbling within him are strange and a bit frightening. This is insane. He’s Sherlock Holmes. A brain housed in a bodily transport. Detached from the emotions that plague the majority of the populace. 

_ Not so sociopathic now, aren’t you? _

A little head in his voice observes. 

_ Piss off. _

He finishes washing Mycroft, making sure that anything soapy on his being has been rinsed off before tackling himself as fast as he could. When he finally shuts off the water, he reaches for a fluffy towel just outside the shower stall, and he dries Mycroft off first. He slows down his movements from earlier, taking time and care to ensure he gets every drop of water off his brother’s person. 

Mycroft’s blue eyes are fixated on Sherlock’s hands, watching his progress with rapt attention. When they are both dry, Sherlock attires Mycroft in his pyjamas before guiding him back outside to the bed. Anthea had come in at some point and left a platter of food and a pair of mugs with tea on a tray on the nightstand. 

“Will you eat, Omega?” Sherlock asks, taking a grape from the stem. 

“If Alpha says I should.” Mycroft bows his head in a jarringly submissive way, and Sherlock really wants to go bash in the heads of all the Alphas Mycroft had ever been with. 

“You should eat, Omega. But it should be your choice. Not mine.”

“They say I am too independent for any Alpha to want me. Too fat. Too ugly. And getting too old... Aunt Cynthia had always said that –”

“Then they are arseholes of the first degree. And hang our stupid relatives! They can go suck on a lemon and jump off a cliff in that order.” Sherlock says vehemently, bringing the grape to Mycroft’s lips.

His brother accepts the offering. And another. A piece of cheese. And a few bites of a cucumber sandwich. When they are done, Mycroft asks tentatively.

“Does Alpha not want to mount me?”

Instead, Sherlock brings his brother closer, sensing that the Omega needs physical contact. “No. Don’t. Not like this. You can scent me if you wish. Cuddle. Sleep.”

“You are… so different.” Mycroft’s voice is full of wonder. He buries his face against Sherlock’s scent gland, buried at the junction between clavicle and sternocleidomastoid and nuzzles it. 

It’s hard to say if different refers to a deviation from Sherlock’s typical everyday behaviour and attitudes or if Sherlock is ‘different’ for an Alpha. 

“I am only doing what any decent human being ought to, Omega.”

Unexpectedly Mycroft bursts into sobs again, and Sherlock is left wondering what he had said wrong. Over the course of years, he had made more than one Omega cry over something he’s said, and for him especially – it’s difficult to parse out the reason why. 

Sherlock knows he isn’t the sociopath he claims to be, being able to feel emotion and empathy. But sometimes, interpreting isn’t so easy which is one reason why he avoids these intimate relationships like the plague. The position of floundering about like a hapless goldfish doesn’t suit him. He knows he doesn’t have a neurotypical view of the world leading to the formation of defenses and masks to help conceal his deficits, but still – some days he wishes he could just  _ understand _ people. Big brother included.

“What’s wrong? Did I say something?” Sherlock lets Mycroft curl up against him. “What do you need?”

Mycroft doesn’t say anything, hiding his face in Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Oh, Mycie. Omega. It’s okay. Everything will be alright. Just sleep. Things may feel better then.” 

He continues stroking his brother’s back, and just before he feels his own exhaustion (having spent the night or so preparing for Irene’s retrieval) take over him, he presses a soft kiss against Mycroft’s forehead. 

* * * * *

“Sherlock! Why are you in my bed? And why are you naked?!”

Sherlock wakes up to a confused and suspicious Mycroft in an unfamiliar bed.  _ Oh great, someone has recovered from their post-heat trip. And he’s cranky! _

“Are you not supposed to be in Pakistan? Fucking your Omega?” 

The bitterness in Mycroft’s voice pulls at Sherlock’s chest. 

“She’s not my Omega. And I was planning on saving her, not fucking her.”

“Really?” Mycroft arches a sarcastic eyebrow, although its effect is very much diminished by how rumpled he looks. 

“Instead I saved you from Anthea’s wrath.” Sherlock attempts to explain himself. “And I would wear clothes, except that you clung to me like a limpet after I – well  _ we _ – took a shower together.” 

“Wait, what? We showered together? And – god! Why do I smell like –”

“Omega? You went into heat, brother mine. Anthea called me –”

“What? Did we… did we…” Mycroft is absolutely horrified, looking to and fro for evidence of… copulation. 

“No! Absolutely not!” At Mycroft’s cowering expression at Sherlock’s outburst, Sherlock quietly says in a placating manner. “No. I found you after your heat. Cleaned you up. Fed and watered you. Took you to bed. You insisted that I do not leave.” He omits Mycroft’s attempts to please him sexually. It would only make things worse. “I guess, you are okay now? And… that I should leave?” Sherlock wonders out loud, even though he still doesn’t trust Mycroft to look after himself. It’s only going to get worse with every heat his brother deliberately goes without an Alpha.

“Go then.” Mycroft says with the tatters of his pride. 

But Sherlock stays put, hearing the undercurrent of despair in his brother’s voice. There’s something here that he has to solve. Not one of his conventional cases, but he feels that there must be a reason why Anthea had called him here. Not necessarily to prevent him from going to Pakistan, but to… save a life. But… how? And why had Mycroft cried after his words earlier?

> “I am only doing what any decent human ought to, Omega.”

“Why aren’t you going?” 

“Mycroft, what is your endgame with this? You can’t keep carrying on like this. You will…” Sherlock can’t bring himself to say the words. “You will…”

Mycroft gives him a sharp look. “Now why do you care about my life decisions, Sherlock? You’ve never seemed to before. In fact you might be –”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence!” Sherlock grabs onto his brother’s shoulders firmly, resisting the urge to throttle him. “Don’t you fucking –”

“It’s my decision.” His tone is icy. 

“Mycroft…” 

“What else can I possibly do, Sherlock? It’s intolerable. You are an Alpha. You would never understand the humiliation that it is to be an Omega in this  _ modern _ day and –”

“What about… me?”

“Yes, what about you? Sherlock. The world does not revolve around –”

“No, that’s not what  _ I _ meant!” Sherlock can’t believe he’s proposing this, but he’s desperate. A world without a big brother would be… unfathomable. Intolerable. Unquantifiable. 

“Then what could you possibly mean?” Mycroft looks at him in disbelief; his brain unable to compute the variables that Sherlock had just thrown at him. “Don’t tell me you passed down on Ms Adler to have a –”

“I… I am not asking for a fuck, Mycroft. As you so astutely deduced months back, I am a virgin. I’ve never had relations with  _ that _ woman – regardless of your deductions. But, I do very much care about you. More than I thought I did.” He hangs his head a little in shame. “But… I understand if you decline my offer – or should I say – suit… I… I have been abominable towards you for the entirety of our adulthood. I’ve mocked you, belittled you in possibly every manner – this is ludicrous – even I would reject me. Brotherly relations aside.” Sherlock’s voice grows less confident with every word he speaks. 

Before he slides off the bed – reaching over for a towel to cover his privates, Mycroft’s hand is around his wrist. “Wait, Sherlock – what were you going to ask? A suit? God…”

“I was going to ask the same question I asked you earlier during your… post-heat delirium.”

“Sherlock… aside from knowing that I went into heat, I do not recall any moment afterwards. Ask it.” At Sherlock’s hesitation, Mycroft insists gently. “I implore you.”

“I… I was going to ask if you would let me take care of you, Mycroft.” 

Sherlock is looking at the hand that is still wrapped around his wrist. He has never felt so vulnerable in front of his brother, who had seen him through injury, overdose, withdrawal – basically in short – at his worst. Who had taken care of him time and time again, only for Sherlock to throw his sentiment and care back in his face. No wonder Mycroft had always gone by the adage ‘Caring is not an advantage’. They are both looking at each other with no shields separating them. 

“You… you would really?” Mycroft asks, his voice barely audible.

There’s a brief jerky nod that Sherlock gives, and he says quietly. “I am willing to try. I won’t be perfect. Far from it, really.” He then adds his earlier deductions. “You were… jealous of Irene, weren’t you? Last Christmas. Even… now. You… you were willing to commit treason for me. Just as I was willing to commit treason for… well her.” He gives a harsh laugh. “A fucked up triangle. She was… she was nothing but an interesting distraction. And you…” Sherlock pauses for a bit, thinking through his words. “You called me, Alpha – during your post-heat state. I…”

Mycroft only nods. He pulls Sherlock gently, urging him back on the bed. Somehow, he doesn’t look surprised at all. “I… I am glad that you came, Sherlock. I am also glad that you care. I am not sorry that Ms Adl–”

“Forget it, Mycie.” Sherlock slides back into the covers. “Actions after all do have consequences. So… we will give this… a go?”

There is a shy look on Mycroft’s face. It’s endearing. 

Sherlock entangles his fingers with his brother’s. Slowly, he leans forward ever so little. His eyes scrutinize Mycroft, ensuring that he isn’t misreading what Mycroft wants from him. Mycroft doesn’t pull away as Sherlock begins to scent him for the first time, initiating an old but still very much relevant courtship ritual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone, and hopefully the next year isn't as terrible as this one!  
> As usual, thank you for all your support!


End file.
